


Break Glass

by sugarburnt



Series: Shattered [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infinity Gems, M/M, Mutants, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson-centric, Sharon Carter-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarburnt/pseuds/sugarburnt
Summary: Ripped back from the Soul Stone, Sam is struggling to readjust to Steve, life, and the Avengers. Sharon survived Thanos, but may have made some horrors of her own.





	1. Chapter 1

Sam groaned and rolled out of Steve’s arms. He thought about stretching. He thought that the water stain on their ceiling was bigger than it had been when he fell asleep. Did it drip on him? He blinked, scrubbed a hand over his face, tried to remember…

The door thumped again and Steve shot up beside him. He peered owlishly into the dark and then the urgent knocks repeated.

“Stay here.”

“Like hell--Rogers!”

Right, it had been a noise that woke him. Sam scrambled out of bed and slipped his gun out of the bedside drawer. His husband already stood poised by the front door, no weapon needed, his body coiled into a ready spring. He nodded and Sam cocked the gun.

“Sammy?”

They both frowned. _Wait_ , Sam mouthed. He pointed his muzzle at the floor and took a deep breath. He leaned forward to peek through the peephole.

“Mattie?” Holy fucking shit. He ignored Steve’s silent _Sam!_ and scrambled to undo the chain.

“Sammy!” came the muffled voice again. “Open the fuck up, man.”

Sam flung the door open and pulled his bruised, bloody friend inside. “What happened to you?” he hissed.

“Long story, man, but I’m clean,” Mattie said, raising his hands. “Ditched my tail back in Jersey.”

“You sure?” Sam clicked the locks and took up his gun in both hands again. Mattie nodded.

“I’m sure,” he said earnestly. “I _made sure,_ okay?”

“Jesus, Mattie.” Sam clicked the safety on his pistol and sat it on the kitchen island. “What the hell happened?”  


“Like I said, it’s a long story, man.” Mattie shook his head and winced. His left eye was swollen shut and his nose was badly broken, but he’d had the good sense to at least wear a pair of shades. They were pushed up in his sweaty hair now, showing off a nasty cut that started on his forehead and disappeared under tangled brown strands.

“You, uh, got a beer?” he asked.

Steve clapped Sam’s shoulder. “Better: we’ve got whiskey.” Mattie chuckled and raised an eyebrow. Sam rolled his eyes.

“He’s Irish.”

Mattie’s laugh caught on a cough. Sam led him to the couch and turned the ‘white noise’ channel on the stereo. Natasha programmed it for them, heedless of Sam’s insistence that this was their personal apartment, and he wasn’t about to start harboring fugitives again; he’d learned his lesson with the last two.

“So,” said Mattie, easing onto the cushions. “That’s uh. Really is Captain America, huh?”

“Used to be.”

Mattie jumped and Steve made his face like he was biting down a laugh. Sam glared at him.

“Sorry,” he lied. “Here. Found some beer, after all.”

He handed Mattie a beer and Sam a coffee, which he could smell was spiked. Steve sat down in Sam’s favorite armchair with nothing, just put his chin in his hand and stared at Mattie.

“Said you had a story for us. Mattie, right?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sorry.” Mattie leaned forward and stuck his hand out. “Matt Crenshaw, Airman First Class. Sam’n the guys always called me Mattie--”  


Steve shook his hand and nodded. “Matt,” he said, warm if not exactly welcoming. Sam rolled his eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir.”  


Steve grinned. “Not in the army anymore, _son,_ ” he teased. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”  


Mattie nodded and cleared his throat. He sat up a little straighter, holding his right ribs in place. “I’d say sorry for showing up on your doorstep but, honestly.” He laughed wryly. “Honestly, Sammy, I figured you were the only one I knew who’d know what to do.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t say anything. Mattie sighed.

“Things haven’t been good, since I got back. From. You know.” His eyes flicked to Sam and he did know. He remembered his skin pulled tight, his bones like shards tearing through muscle, trying to unfold in a smaller space, pressed together with so many others he couldn’t breathe, newly formed lungs collapsing

“Sammy.”

Steve was frowning. Sam shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Say again, Mattie?”

“I tried my best to re-enlist, but, you know, they’re not taking everybody back these days.” Mattie rubbed at his good eye. “Just wanted something I remembered, you know?” he mumbled. “Something good.”

“I understand,” Sam said gently. He and Steve both did the same damn thing, the times they died and came back. “So, what, Air Force held out on you?”

Mattie nodded. “Took up with the, uh, ‘Contract Forces,’” he said with a grimace. “Not exactly legit, but it. It uh, paid the bills, you know?”

Sam and Steve shared a look. The so-called ‘Contract Forces’ replaced much of America’s army after half of the population was decimated. Private companies offered off-brand training for civilians looking to make a difference and then sold their contracts back to the army for a profit. Capitalism at its finest: the government didn’t have to worry about shelling out food, shelter, or trainers, but still got to keep their killing arm; the Training Companies were released from all liability concerning their ‘recruits’ once they were in the army’s greedy hands. But now that soldiers were returning home and reporting for duty after the Resurrection--the homecoming, release, whatever--contracted outfits were being relieved of duty and their members left with next to nothing. Only a few truly remained in rotation, and they were sent to deal almost exclusively with jobs that couldn’t officially be army sanctioned.

“Didn’t even know they were still hiring,” Sam said finally.

“Legally?” said Mattie. “They’re not.” He gripped his beer and got lost in Sam’s tasteful throw-rug, good eye gone blank.

“I’m guessing things didn’t work out?” Steve prompted.

Mattie shook himself and cleared his throat again. “Not exactly,” he croaked. His gaze flicked to Sam.

“What do you know,” he asked, “about Geest Laboratories?”

~~~

Sharon sighed and resisted the urge to drum her nails on the table. Nat never took calls on their date nights, not unless they were urgent. That had been Sam Wilson’s ringtone, sure--his _normal_ tone, not a Falcon Cry--but Natasha had been gone for five minutes already. Finally, Sharon stood as well and, flashing the waiter a smile, trailed after her wife. She rapped quick-quick- _slow_ on the bathroom door and it opened with a click. She waited for a suited man to pass and then popped it open with her foot and slipped inside, locking it behind her again. Natasha flashed her a quick smile from her perch the counter.

“Well, do you think he’s telling the truth?” she asked, crossing her legs. There was an explosion of chatter from the other end of the line and she rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Wilson, I’m just asking.”

Nat cocked her head and adjusted the strap of her dress. It was clingy, with spaghetti straps and deep scoop neckline; a deep green crushed velvet that complimented her eyes. Sharon sighed. She’d been looking forward to rucking that up later and ripping Natasha’s fishnets right up the seams and

“Sharon.”

Nat rolled her eyes and curled one finger toward her. “You’re on speaker, pretty bird.”

 _“Fuck you,”_ Wilson grumbled. _“Hey, Share.”_

Sharon bit back a chuckle and sauntered up to lean over Natasha’s cellphone. “Sam,” she said. “What’s the sitch?”

 _“Friend showed up today,”_ Sam told her. _“He’s been through it. Brought in some intel about a_ ‘Geest Labs.’ _Ring any bells?”_

Sharon frowned at Natasha. “No,” she admitted.

“Kim Possible says no,” Nat said. Sharon flicked her shoulder.

 _“Yeah, thanks, Ron,”_ Wilson said dryly. _“Wait, does that make Steve the mole rat?”_

_“If we could get back to the very important intel brought to us by the fugitive in our apartment--”_

“Rufus is right,” Natasha said. “Your guy--Crenshaw? He said he was guarding something, right?”

 _“Right,”_ Sam said grimly. _“He was stationed--well. Contracted out at this placed run by a guy named Geest. They were there to quote un-quote “guard hostile detainees,” and. Well.”_

“Well?” Natasha demanded.

_“It was kids.”_

Sharon grimaced. “Kids?”

 _“As in small humans,”_ Sam confirmed. _“_ Sick _kids, from what Mattie knows.”_

 _“Crenshaw claims that he doesn’t know why they were being held there,”_ Rogers interrupted. _“Information was restricted, disseminated to Contracted personnel at the army’s discretion--”_

“So why did he come to you now?” Sharon asked.

“Did he get tired of selling his soul to lock up ill children?” Natasha snarked. “Sorry, Sam. Just. Wow.”

 _“Don’t worry about it,”_ Sam muttered. _“He got out because new orders came in. Shit.”_

The line crackled, like Wilson had put his hand over the receiver for a moment. Natasha caught Sharon’s eye and tilted her head, raised a brow. Sharon shrugged.

The line crackled again. _“Sorry, drunk neighbors,”_ Sam explained.

“You’re so domestic, Wilson,” Natasha teased. Her smile was soft, secret in a way that made Sharon’s throat tighten up with something ugly. “Bring it back to super-hero mode.”

 _“Yeah,”_ said Sam, quieter this time. _“They ordered a clean out, man. A ‘_ full extermination of all government assets’ _if you can even believe that shit.”_

Natasha went a little pale. Sharon frowned. “Why?” she snapped. “These are--this sounds bad, but these are American kids, right?”

Sam huffed. _“Doesn’t matter much if they’re poor or brown, Share.”_ She winced.

“Fair enough,” she said. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

Sam sighed. _“Shit like this doesn’t make sense,”_ he muttered. _“Everyone’s back, right? Why not just shove these kids back into homes that can’t care for them, if it’s about expense--”_

“Why go through the risk of killing them.” Natasha bit her lip. “There’s a lot we don’t know here. What did you say Crenshaw got, before he was caught?”

 _“Not much,”_ said Rogers.

 _“Just a flash drive,”_ Wilson claryfied. _“And I can’t making any fucking sense out of it.”_

“Where did he come in from?” Sharon asked. “Where is this lab supposed to be, I mean?”

_“Somewhere outside of Las Vegas.”_

Sharon froze as unexpected, giddy panic raced up her spine. Natasha raised an eyebrow at her and Sharon had to force a wry grin.

“Sounds like something out of a Fallout Game,” she said. Nat rolled her eyes.

_“Hoping you ladies might take a crack at this thing.”_

“Of course.” Nat pressed the phone to her ear again. “We’re on our way. You know we can set up something for your friend, too.”

Sharon took Natasha’s free hand and tangled their fingers together.

“Roger,” said Nat. “No, not you, idiot--”

Sharon let her partner’s raspy laugh warm her belly and pushed growing suspicion to the back of her brain.

~~~

“All clear.” Sam finally threw his cellphone onto the table and offered Steve a smile. “Nat says Mattie is settled into his new place, no trouble.”

“No tail?” Steve asked.

“No tail. As confirmed by Sharon.”

Steve collapsed onto the couch and opened his arms. Sam welcomed the embrace without pretense. It had been a long damn night-and-a-day. Sam wanted to sleep for forty hours and then not talk to anyone except Steve for another ten. Mattie had to go and interrupt their one weekday off in two months--Lord knew Sam’s schedule kept him working around the clock, and Steve had finally taken Bucky’s advice and got a job as an art teacher. He subbed a lot for Professor X at his school, which kept him closer to potential problems than Sam would like, but also a _lot_ busier than a run-of-the-mill subbing gig. Couldn’t have everything. Sam rubbed his face into his husband’s shoulder and pressed a little kiss over his collar bone. Steve cradled the back of his head, scratching lightly through his hair.

“So are you heading to Nevada tomorrow?” Steve asked. “Who’re you bringing in for back up?”

He asked lightly, eyes closed and his jaw soft, but his stupid shoulders gave him away.

“Sam?”

Sam sighed. He popped up, settling his chin on Steve’s chest. “I am,” Sam said. “But I’m not heading the Op. Widow’s taking Carter; Cap and I will be on standby in Vegas, because we, and I quote, are ‘subtle as bulldozers.’”

Steve wrinkled his nose and cracked open one blue eye. “Ouch,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I would’ve said ‘pea _cocks_ ,’ but--oof!” Steve chuckled and grabbed Sam’s arms before he could punch him again.

“So I should take advantage of you tonight, huh?” he asked, slipping his fingers from Sam’s wrist up his arms to the nape of his neck. “Because I won’t get you for a while.”

Sam bit his lip. He wanted so badly to let Steve’s fingers continue on their way, let them slip under his sweats and get him nice and loose for Steve’s cock or his tongue, maybe even just for the feel of it.

But they really had to talk.

Cursing his good sense, Sam sighed. “Hey.” He caught Steve’s hand and brought it back around, kissing the wide, calloused palm.

“I know you’re involved because, well.” He rolled his eyes. “Mattie just _involved_ you by showing up on our doorstep. But you’re staying out of the field, right?”

Steve sighed.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “ _Right,_ Steve?”

“I’ve got no plans to jump back in,” Steve said, which wasn’t the damn answer Sam wanted. “But Sam--

“But nothing!” Sam pushed up. “You retired _years ago_ , asshole, you can’t jump right in every time shit goes down with me--”

 _“But.”_ Steve’s free hand went to the small of his back, holding Sam there.

“This is personal for you,” he said quietly. “I want to be there if you need me.”

“I need you here,” Sam snapped. He smoothed Steve’s stupid messy hair back from his forehead. “Safe.”

Steve laughed at him. “Sammy,” he said, “a paramilitary contract killer just showed up on our doorstep with information that could get all three of us murdered, or worse. ‘Safe’ is relative.”

“Steve, you _retired_ ,” Sam insisted, bile welling up in the back of his throat. “You retired while I was gone, and you didn’t--”

“I know,” Steve said quickly, like he didn’t want to hear about it either. “And I did it for a reason. Like I said, I’ve got no plans to jump back in. But. You know. If you need me--”

“Just--stay and help out Charles, okay?” Sam interrupted. “Concentrate on being the best substitute art teacher your kids’ll ever have.”

As he hoped, Steve groaned, throwing his arm dramatically over his eyes. “We’re moving into abstract expressionism this week,” he complained. Sam snorted.

“I thought you liked Jackson Pollock.”

“I do,” Steve moaned. “And so does Jubilee.”

Sam laughed until his belly hurt. “You’re gonna have to clean up so much paint--”

“Yeah, yuck it up, now, buddy,” Steve grumbled. “It’s your hallway her pent up anger’s gonna hang in.”

Sam punched him again.

~~~

“Clint really would get a kick out of this place,” Sharon said.

Growing smack in the middle of Nevada’s vast desert like the loneliest palm tree was a tall, unkempt sign proclaiming the site of US ARMY LABORATORY 16 - GEEST. It swayed in the hot breeze. The area within a two-mile radius of the lab had been cleared in an eerily exact circle--Sharon would be willing to bet that paired with the damn sign, they would form a passable sundial.

“That’s not good,” Natasha muttered, lifting her eye from her scope. “There’s not even a guard posted.”

“They don’t want any attention on this place.” Sharon stood, stretching her cramped legs. “Probably bugged to hell.”

Nat hummed in agreement. “Barnes? You read me?”

 _“Barely.”_ Cap’s voice scratched over the comms. _“There’s definitely a signal jammer nearby. It’s connected to some private network; it’s encrypted but I’m working on it.”_

“Just what I wanted to hear,” Nat cooed. “Work away; we’ll find a way in.”

From the outside the lab wasn’t much to commit subterfuge about. It was a squat, thick-walled brick building, two stories, no basement, twenty windows. It had one front and one back entrance, and fire escapes running up and down each side. The only anomaly was a jutting crow’s nest, built out of the southwest corner of the building like an awkward chimney stack. But it, as Natasha suggested, sat empty.

 _“Maybe not_ totally _empty,”_ said Cap. _“Can you get a good angle on it?”_

“There’s no man up there, Barnes,” Nat said.

_“Sexist.”_

Natasha glared off into the desert.

 _“...sorry about that,”_ came Wilson’s voice. _“We think the network source is broadcasting from that point. Can you get a good angle?”_

Natasha hefted her rifle up and away from her body with a grimace. “Maybe,” she said. “We might have to back up--not a lot of leverage here.”

“Here.” Sharon knelt in front of her and patted her shoulder. “Just give me an earplug.”

Nat gave her a heated look. Sharon rolled her eyes and took the offered silicone, popped one piece into her ear over the comms. Widow knelt and the legs of her rifle’s bipod dug into Sharon’s suit. The gun tilted, barrel ghosting over her cheek as Nat nudged it into position, and Sharon gave her a thumbs up.

Nat said, _“putting up a muffle,”_ and the world cut out. Sharon concentrated on her own breath. She could still hear the pop, very faintly, and felt the kickback dig a bruise through her suit.

Then the gun was gone and her wife’s fingers were brushing over her jaw, then her ears, and the world came to life again.

“That was hot,” Nat murmured, green eyes blown wide.

 _“Comms are back on, ladies,”_ Wilson said mildly.

Nat gave Sharon a loud, wet kiss on the cheek and Bucky gagged. Sharon rolled her eyes and let her partner help her to her feet.

 _“Network is--out,”_ Wilson said. _“Whatever’s in there, it’s all yours, now.”_

Natasha strapped the rifle to her back while Sharon grabbed the rest of the gear. They crossed the desert toward the Lab in silence and she waited until Widow had her mission face on to spin her around, pulling her close to her chest.

“You know I can handle your gun anytime, red,” she purred. “Fully loaded.”

Natasha’s face went scarlet and she burst into giggles, using Sharon’s arms to steady herself.

 _“Oh, come on!”_ Bucky yelled. _“Sharon goddamnit--”_

 _“Wait,”_ said Wilson, _“what’d she say?”_

_“--east be actually sexy but you and Steve are just two terrible puns--”_

_“Sharon speaks Russian?”_

_“--anything seriously--Of_ course _she does, but she only uses it for evil!”_

_“Nat? Do I wanna know?”_

“Don’t worry about it, Sam,” Natasha gasped. She snorted and pushed Sharon away, wiping her cheeks to steel against her still-raging blush.

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” she chided. “And I’ll hold you to it.”

Sharon could feel Cap opening his mouth again, so she said, “breach,” and kicked open the front door.

~~~

The entire building was gutted. No walls or doors or nooks or crannies to speak of, only their bones. Sharon had the wits to know she didn’t need her gun, but her hands still itched for its comforting weight. There was--nothing. No equipment, no furniture, no mess; nothing to ever suggest this place had ever functioned, save for the sign and the word of frightened soldier-for-hire. They traced the empty halls on silent feet, but there was no point. Only the buggy fluorescent lights remained, flickering. Something queasy-greasy and sour burrowed into Sharon’s guts, curling tighter with every corner they turned.

“There’s nothing,” she whispered.

_“Any evidence to co--”_

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Sharon snapped, too sharp. “There’s _no_ evidence. There’s nothing.”

“There can’t be nothing,” Natasha muttered. “I’ll check central offices down here. You take the second floor.”

“There’s not even stairs.” Sharon stared up through the hole in floor that used to house--an elevator, perhaps, judging by the wires and fuse box left behind.

“You’re a super-spy,” Natasha said, pulling her hair up into a tight ponytail. “You’ll figure it out.”

Sharon held back a sigh. She removed the grappling hook from her belt and shot, blowing plaster over the otherwise unnaturally pristine laboratory. She rode the line up and flipped onto the second floor, landing with a thump that echoed strangely off the remaining tile. More gutted rooms, though somehow more than she expected, and they seemed smaller. Darker. Sharon frowned. She approached the eastern-wall, just above where the front entrance sat.

“There should be a window here,” she called.

“What?”

“Sorry. The windows we saw from outside--they’re fake,” she repeated over the comm. “If they really kept kids here--this is worse than a prison, Nat.”

 _“I found an access point,”_ her partner said tightly. _“I’ll see if there’s anything to tie into.”_

 _“Careful, Nat,”_ Wilson chimed in. _“Don’t trip up.”_

 _“I won’t,”_ Nat snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. _“...just stand by, okay?”_ she added, voice rasping. _“If it comes to it--”_

 _“I got you,”_ Sam said. And Sharon couldn’t follow them, and their little raport. When did they even build it? How often had Natasha actually seen Wilson since he came back from the dead?

A hot spike of shame stabbed at the pit of her stomach for that nasty thought and Sharon ground her teeth. She should returned to her task.

The middle room was wide, a singular space that took up one whole third of the second floor, with what could have been a shower drain. The smaller units housed one toilet each, and two different sets of eight holes, grouped together in twos, the same pattern in each room. Nothing else--except for the last one on the left, next to what used to be the door to the crow’s nest.

“There were beds here,” Sharon said. She knelt and examined the singular broken leg shoved between the toilet and the wall. “Steel.” She lifted the leg, felt it’s flat, chipped foot. “Bolted down, most likely.”

 _“Creepy, but unsurprising,”_ Natasha muttered. _“I may have found something. It looks like they never hooked up a new network when they left, they just erased the old one. Or tried to.”_

Sharon frowned. “Can you tap it?”

 _“I can,”_ Widow confirmed. _“But…”_

“It’ll probably tip them off.”

 _“_ Definitely _tip them off,”_ Nat said. _“Are we willing to risk those consequences?”_

There was a scrape up the side of the toilet bowl. Sharon frowned. It was reddish brown and ugly, stark against the bleached white. Must have happened _after_ clean up, but how?

Sharon pulled up the seat, peered close. There was nothing inside the bowl. She stood and lifted the lid of the tank and froze. The heavy porcelain slipped through her fingers, slamming to the ground inches from her right foot.

 _“Sharon?”_ Natasha said sharply.

Cap said something; Sharon didn’t understand him. She reached inside the dry tank with shaking hands and pulled the little stuffed dog free. He was covered in grime, in blood and dust and other fluids she didn’t want to think about, but there was no mistaking it. Brown, under all that sludge, and the remaining eye was a bright, lurid violet. She still had the letter tucked away in the diary she knew Natasha would never, ever touch, scrawled on wide-ruled notebook paper in purple colored pencil

Brownie The Dog, spelled so, so carefully. That’s what Cameron could spell, his name, her nomer, and that stupid dog’s name that he always said just like that. _Brownie-the-dog, Miss Bond! They gave him to me my first day here’n Savannah says he’ll keep me safe if they’re monsters under th’bed_

“Sharon!”

She whipped around and she knew that for a moment Natasha must have caught the rage on her face, because she stumbled to a stop, her brow wrecked by worry.

“Do it,” Sharon snapped.

 _“Share,”_ Wilson said over the comms, _“we still don’t know who we’re really up against. What if--”_

“Then let’s find out,” Sharon snapped. She held Natasha’s gaze. “Widow. Do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam went on a lot of walks. Not runs--those were for him and Steve, racing each other and exchanging heated looks that usually led to very pleasant showers. Walks were for Sam. 

The city changed a lot while he was dead. New buildings popped up amid the ruins, old neighborhoods filled with new peoples. Things got mixed up and switched around when they all came back, all at once, rushing in like a tidal wave after stripping the beach bare. It was unbearable at first, all those bodies surging and rubbing around and against him after the infinite empty-not-empty space of Soul Stone death. But it was getting easier. Sort of. 

He needed a walk right now. After Nevada, and the awful anti-climactic wait that followed Natasha’s reckless fucking decision. Not a damn thing happened when she ripped remnants of old data out of Geest Lab’s gutted network. No explosions, no bogeys incoming, no boots stomping in to murder them. Just a single outgoing signal which they could not trace, live for approximately two point two three seconds before Widow crushed it under her digital boot. The outfit who set up that booby trap was either very smart or very stupid. Sam couldn’t decide which was worse, or which he preferred. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial, something they couldn’t possibly know. So much happened while everyone was dead, while _he_ was dead, and no one kept track of it. No one could have, not with the grief and shock and the sheer physical trauma of half of everyone just fucking _gone_ . 

Sam shook his head. It was walking day, and he was strolling through Harlem. He watched the buildings and the ghosts of buildings pass as his legs carried him over the pavement. No sense in worrying; they couldn’t prepare for what they didn’t know to watch out for. Sam had made it all the way up to Sugar Hill when the tremors started. 

The first rumbles were enough like construction noise to ignore. The second wave sent Sam stumbling into a wall. He paused with one hand on the bricks of a now-empty bakery, trying to determine which direction the tremors came from. His watch beeped, and Sam pressed haphazardly at the side. 

“Yo! FRIDAY, what you got?” 

Another quake splattered an A/C unit on the pavement mere feet from him, and Sam almost missed the AI’s answer. 

“Disturbance on the Hudson,” FRIDAY told him. “Initial reports describe a monster, approximately nine feet tall emerging from the water.” 

“That’s awful small for this type of seismic activity,” Sam pointed out. 

“That might have to do with the screams, sir,” FRIDAY explained. “The creature appears to release subsonic waves for cries, enough to shatter windows and--” 

“Shake the ground.” Sam grimaced. “I need a set of wings, stat.” 

“On it, sir.” 

Sam headed up toward Broadway, where civilians had clustered outside a grocery store. One of the men pounded on the glass doors. “Let us in!” he bellowed. “We’re gonna die out here!” 

Horribly familiar whistling filled Sam’s ears. “Get down!” he bellowed. “RPG!” 

A flaming sphere roared in from the west, bounced off the left lane and hurtled toward the crowd. Sam put on a burst of speed, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time. 

A newcomer shot out of the shadows, and a sharp crack split the air. The fireball veered sharply to the right and buried itself in the sidewalk, spraying chunks of concrete at the terrified crowd. 

Sam jogged up. “Man, am I glad I ran into you,” he panted. Luke Cage heaved a piece of rubble out of the way. 

“How you doing, Sam?” he asked, flashing one of his mega-wat smiles. Sam grinned back and laughed. 

“Been better,” he said. 

His watch chimed. “Falcon!” FRIDAY said urgently. “New intel suggests the creature is now using flaming projectiles--” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Roger.” 

Luke chuckled. He knocked on the grocery store doors, gave his best bullet-proof glare. 

“Let these people in!” he ordered. A man who must have been the manager pushed past a pair of employees and quickly undid the lock. 

“Sorry,” he panted. “Come-come in, please.” 

The crowd hurried inside and Luke cocked his head. Sam followed him across the street, jogging to keep up. 

“Didn’t happen to bring those wings with you, didja?” Luke asked. 

Sam shook his head. “I--Incoming!” 

Luke blocked the oncoming car with a tackle stance and a grimace. He set it down gently as he could, but the driver already appeared unconscious. 

“Gaurd’s pulling up,” Luke noted. Sure enough, two military copters buzzed overhead, already taking aim as they made beeline for the river. 

Sam frowned and lifted his watch again. “FRIDAY?” 

“The others have just arrived, Falcon.” 

The quinjet materialized a few blocks away, blasters spitting purple beams at the Hudson. The hatch opened and out dropped Barnes like a stone, shield in hand, stupid domino mask firmly affixed. 

“I’m gonna catch up to ‘em,” Sam said. He nudged Luke with his elbow. “Could use some cover, getting there?” 

Luke snorted, smiling again. “Someone’s gotta watch out for you, feathers.” Sam locked his knees and grinned past a blush. 

“C’mon.” 

They saw the New Thing well before they reached the river. It had grown, and it’s distorted body would tower well over Washington Bridge. Sam picked up his pace. 

“Where are those wings, FRIDAY?”  
  


“Sorry, Falcon,” FRIDAY chimed. “Hiccup in the homing system. Would you mind holding still for just a moment?”  
  


Sam ducked into an alley, Luke at his heels. “Not a good idea to stay here too long,” the big man warned. “That thing’s only getting angrier.” 

As if in answer another blood-curdling shriek echoed across the water. Sam covered his ears and gritted his teeth. 

“At least the earthquakes stopped,” he grumbled. 

“If you say so,” Luke shouted back, his face pinched in pain. “Might’ve preferred a few shakes to this. I think I’m going deaf!” 

Redwing’s welcome cry interrupted their mutual suffering. The hawk was fitted in Sam’s favorite battle armor, his little helmet and the delicate sweep of his back glittering down to his bionic tail. Red glided to him and dropped his pack into his eager hands. Luke offered his arm which Red readily alighted, digging his claws playfully into the man’s unbreakable skin and nipping his cheek. 

“FRIDAY got you working, huh, buddy?” Sam shook out the pack and fit the straps over his shoulders, snapped the buckles shut. He slid on his gauntlets and the screens lit up, _all systems go._ Sam shoved his comm into his ear and put his goggles into place with a satisfying snap. 

“Hey everybody,” he said. “Sit rep?” 

_“Hawkeye’s on the bridge. I’m running point. Trying to get this thing down with minimal damage,”_ Barnes barked. _“Iron Man’s on perimeter for projectiles.”_

_“Don’t you just love hump day?”_ Stark grumbled. _“Foul ball! Dammnit--”_

“Thor?” 

_“Helping the civilians,”_ said the god. _“The creature seems immune to my lightning, friend Sam. It’s...unsettling.”_

“Luke, you want in on this?” Sam asked. 

_“Luke Cage?”_ Stark said. _“Hot. Can you--”_

“Think I’m gonna let y’all take the big guy,” Luke said. “Gotta get people away from the river.” 

“Good luck, man.” Sam gave Luke a parting clasp on the shoulder and whistled sharply three times. Redwing chirrped. He settled into the little hollow in Sam’s pack and together took off toward the Hudson. 

There were still two military copters in the air; the smoking remnants of a third hung like a twisted toy from the wires supporting the bridge in the distance. The creature reared its skull of a head and roared, bloody spittle flying from its mouth. Crooked, needle-like teeth gnashed. It’s skin was scabbing and scaly, so thin in some places that Sam could see it’s muscles shifting and pulsing as it moved. It reminded him of Grendel or Gollum; a deceript, pitiable thing that made the breath catch in Sam’s throat. 

A burning sphere appeared in its hand and Sam dove as it swung its arm back. The helicopter behind him banked, not quite fast enough. The rudder exploded with a screech and Sam darted toward it. He caught the soldier’s plummeting body without thinking, pulled up just before they hit the water. The gunman in Sam’s arms screamed as he swerved around another piece of the copter. He deposited him on the grass and took off again. 

“Iron Man! I need EMTs on the west bank, near the Comfort Inn!” Sam shouted into the comms. 

_“On the way.”_

Sam flew back into the fray. The spheres appeared to be slowing down, but now all the creature’s focus was on Bucky, firing from the remaining military copter. Sam didn’t even want to know how he’d made it up there. He flew up in what he hoped was a blind spot and whistled once. 

“On my mark,” he ordered. Redwing detached and took off over the water. 

Sam hit the creature with two missiles, one in the gut, the other straight into its open maw. Reddish light pulsed under its thin skin and its four bulbous eyes lolled. It swung toward him, Redwing fired off two screeching blasts from his special eye, burning the creature’s temple and throat. A low moan bubbled up from its belly and the thing shuddered. It lurched forward and Cap peppered it’s back with bullets. 

_“Hit it inside again!”_ Bucky shouted. 

“Roger!” 

The creature’s eyes snapped to Sam and a gnarled hand shot out of the Hudson. Sam dove and zipped away, firing off another shot at the thing’s eyes. As he hoped, it opened its mouth to scream, and he launched another rocket deep into its gut. 

_“Is it--shrinking?”_ Barton asked. _“Holy shit.”_

The creature bellowed. Deep, murky brown spouted in rivulets out of its pours and into the river. Its body began to deflate, forty feet, then thirty, then twenty. Sam cursed. 

“We need to get it out of the water,” he said. “Whatever it’s bleeding could poison the river.” 

_“East bank,”_ Barnes barked. _“Try to herd it toward the park.”_

To Sam’s surprise, it wasn’t hard to convince the creature out of the water. Blood loss slowed its movements but it also seemed to hate standing in a pool of its own fluids. It moved persistently away from the center of the river with each blow he and Redwing struck, brown sludge drooling from its eroding skin. By the time Sam had annoyed it onto the banks of the park, where Cap waited, the thing barely stood taller than the Hulk. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered. 

The creature’s skin was smoking, pulsing, corroded trails distorting its body in the wake of its own blood. Bucky shot it once, twice, severing the tendons in its gnarled ankles, and its great body fell. 

_“Barton--”_

_“On it, Cap.”_

Hawkeye darted out into the open, firing shots quicker than Sam could track. The arrows stuck straight up from the ground, their flared tails glowing electric blue. Sam landed, giving the creature a wide berth. 

“Guys, I think--” 

“Yo! Falcon, watch this!” Barton waved. “New toys!” he shouted. He clicked something on his arm brace and six bite-sized projectiles flew up from his grounded arrows. The small hairs on the back of Sam’s neck raised and the air crackled. There was a flash, and when Sam uncovered his eyes a seamless blue-white net shimmered before them, caging the creature within the area closed off by Clint’s neat little circle. 

“Watch,” Barton said again. He pulled a palm-sized sphere from his pocket, pressed the center. As the bomb began to tick, he hurled it at the field. It disintegrated on impact. “Laser generated,” Clint said proudly. “Stark based it on Redwing’s eye.” 

“...alright, that’s pretty good,” Sam admitted. “But I wish you’d waited.” 

Barton frowned. “Why? That thing’s--” 

“In pain.” Sam nodded toward the creature. “Its own blood is hurting it, man. I don’t think it’s gonna be firing off shots again anytime soon.” 

The thing groaned, chest heaving. Its skin had stopped smoking, but still, the creature didn’t attempt to move. Sam could now see the swollen, crusted tears in its hands that were likely the origin--maybe or the result--of its projectiles. 

“Listen,” Sam said. “This is gonna sound crazy, but--” 

_“Motherfucker,”_ Barnes bit out. Sam and Clint exchanged a look. 

“Cap?” Sam asked. 

_“We’ve uh. Got visitors.”_

Sam’s gut soured. Another one? Clint dropped his shades into place and notched an arrow. 

“I’ll take low,” he said with feigned nonchalance. “You, uh--” 

_“Hey, guys!”_ Steve chirped over the coms. _“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”_

Sam tensed. He coiled his body low, but before he could take off again Barton clasped his shoulder. 

“They’re already here,” he said, frowning in sympathy. “‘Sup, other Cap?” he called. “Thought you retired?” 

_“Don’t call it a comeback,”_ Steve laughed. _“I’m just here as an escort.”_

“What?” Sam snapped. “Steve, you fucking--” 

You’ll have to forgive your husband, Samuel. He’s here at my request. 

Sam’s trigger finger spasmed and his hand flew up to his head. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Uh, nice to see you again, Professor.” 

Indeed it is, Xavier said. “Though the circumstances are unfortunate.” 

Sam turned. His husband grinned sheepishly, lifting one hand from the professor’s wheelchair in greeting. He wore an outdated version of the Captain America uniform, now devoid of it’s armored padding and telltale star. Barnes stalked at his side along with two uniformed personnel. He said something to Steve, who chuckled and then bit his lip, eyes flicking to Sam and Barton. Sam pulled off his goggles to glare at him properly. 

“Hi, honey.” Steve pressed a kiss to his cheek, then grimaced. “Surprise.” 

“We’ll talk later.” Sam shouldered past him to shake Xavier’s hand, offering him what he hoped was a smile. “Professor.” 

Xavier nodded. “Sam,” he said warmly. “How have you been, son?” 

“Oh, you know, same ol’ same ol’,” Sam replied. “Though uh. I’ve got to admit, this is new.” 

Bucky nudged the two uniforms forward, nodding at them. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” said one, falling into parade rest. “Private First Class, Regina Cooper.” 

“Private.” They saluted each other. The other soldier followed suit. 

“Corporal Miles Fontaine,” he said. “You--it’s great to meet you, sir.” 

Sam bit back a laugh. “Falcon’s fine,” he said. “Or Sam.” 

“Falcon,” Cooper said firmly. “Good to meet you.” 

Sam turned to face the creature with the rest of them, falling into place at Barnes’ right. 

“So, no offence, Professor, but what exactly brings you here?” Sam asked. 

“Cerebro,” Xavier replid. “I was in the middle of a session with Dr. Grey, when this--” he waved a hand toward the creature, “--poor soul nearly shorted us out.” The Professor rolled past them, his sharp eyes narrowed. “Mr. Barton, if you would be so kind?”

Clint grimaced. “You really wanna get that close to this thing, Prof?” 

“Desperately.” 

“Damn,” Barton said, shoving his hands on his hips. “Those were my only lasers.” 

Sam wrinkled his nose as the smell of burning hair wafted up around them. 

“How did this thing even pop up?” he said. Barnes pulled off his helmet with a frown, no doubt watching Clint flail about with his new gadgets. 

“Unknown,” he reported. “It was weird--FRIDAY didn’t get anything on her scanners. It just--appeared.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“You don’t think this is related to Nevada, do you?” Bucky shot Sam a surprised glance. 

“What makes you think that?” he asked. Sam shrugged. 

“Nothing, really,” he said honestly. “It’s just. Two entirely unexpected, thus far inexplicable things happening in and around us in as many weeks?” Sam shook his head. “I want to believe in coincidence man, I really do. But I don’t buy it.” 

Clint’s forcefield cracked and faded, the little burnt-out arrow tails dropping softly to the grass. The creature withered, its big body pulsing, skin stretching as if to burst. Sam flung out his arm, blocking Bucky’s raised shield with a hand on the rim. 

“Wait,” he said quietly. 

The creature’s big head lolled and two of its eyes snapped to him. The other set tracked Professor Xavier’s careful approach. 

“My friend,” Xavier called. He held up his hands, wheelchair still rolling slowly over the torn grass. “I am here to help you.” 

The creature whimpered, and even that sound rattled Sam’s bones. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to look for Steve. 

“I know,” the Professor said soothingly. “I feel your great pain.” 

“He can communicate with it?” Bucky whispered. “Does--” 

“Oh shit,” Clint cursed. “Buzzards, ten o’clock, guys!” 

A rag-tag group of paparazzi and reporters jogged across the grass, their suits mussed. Sam let out a few choice words of his own and then plastered on his Falcon face, skirting around the moaning creature to intercept the crowd. 

“Whoa,” he called, “stop right there, y’all.” 

“Falcon!” A man rushed forward, his cameraman nearly tripping over another reporter to get close. “What can you tell us about the attack on Harlem today?” 

“As of right now? Not much,” Sam said. “The only important information is that threat has been contained.” 

“What about Charles Xavier’s involvement?” another reporter blurted. “Is it true this was coordinated by a militant mutan--” 

“Professor Xavier is here to consult with the Avengers.” Bucky stepped up to Sam’s side, shield held aloft in a perfect press pose. “He is currently attempting to communicate--” 

“The monster can communicate?” the first reporter interrupted. 

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sam snapped. “Listen, we appreciate the public’s right to information, but what’s important right now is to keep the area clear--” 

“Where did this come from?” 

“Is there a person inside this creature?” 

“Why was Thor absent from the battle?” 

“--for civilian safety,” Sam continued, voice rising. “I’m gonna need y’all all to back it up. Off the grass.” 

_“Well if it isn’t my favorite flyboy.”_ Iron Man landed on the other side of the little gaggle of cameras and microphones. _“Everything clear, Falcon?”_

“No flaming balls of death for the moment,” Sam said dryly. “What do you need, Iron Man?” 

But the crowd had already turned--no doubt as Stark planned--and his question was lost to a sea of simpering reporters. Bucky jerked his head back toward the downed creature and Sam nodded. He trudged back to his husband and the Professor, who had come so close to the creature he could touched it. 

Steve reached out to pull Sam in for a touch or a hug, but Sam just crossed his arms again. “What’s good, Cap?” 

Steve winced. “This wasn’t my idea,” he lied. “Sam, come on.” Steve shook his head. “Don’t give me that look. Charles sensed the creature’s distress during a cerebro session, and asked me to come along.” 

“And that means come out to the battlefield?” Sam snapped. “No, you know what, we can’t do this here.” 

He turned resolutely back to the Professor and the creature. “Professor?” 

Xavier’s eyes were closed, his hands extended over the thing’s heaving chest. “This child is alone, hurt, and confused,” he pronounced. Sam shifted his weight, suddenly aware again of the crowd to their left, clamoring, coming closer. How long before this _child_ became violent again, and more civilians were hurt? 

“She doesn’t know how she came to be here, in this state,” Xavier continued. “This is not her natural form.” 

“Is she a mutant?” Sam hissed, elbowing his husband too hard. 

“I don’t know!” Steve said, rubbing his side. “Ow!” 

The Professor’s brow furrowed and when his eyes opened they were empty, far away, electric. 

“Only pain,” he croaked, and it was like the creature’s voice, Sam thought, if she could speak, raking over his skin and freezing his veins. “Where is--” 

Xavier’s eyes closed again. “Angel?” he asked. “She sees an angel.” 

“Sammy,” Steve said softly. Sam’s stomach dropped, taking his breath in one fell swoop. 

“Is there--” he cleared his throat. “Is there anything we can do for her?” he asked. “We don’t have much time.” 

Steve stepped forward. “There are more civilians--” 

Xavier shook his head, his mouth pinching. “Stryker,” he said darkly. “He’s already here.” 

As the Professor spoke, a bird materialized overhead, built not unlike the quinjet. Stryker disembarked first, followed three neat lines of marching personnel in too-tight jackets and white helmets emblazoned with a black thunderbolt--a contract outfit. Cooper and Fountaine hurried from Bucky’s side to Stryker’s, but the General dismissed them with a sneer and a jerk of his head. Sam bristled, cocking his automatic. 

Steve’s heavy hand settled on his bicep. “Easy,” he murmured. His blue eyes were dark, narrowed on Stryker’s every approaching step. “We--” 

The creature shrieked. Sam whirled around, flinging his wings up to cover the professor. 

“It’s alright!” Xavier insisted, even as the creature withered and bled before them. “It’s alright, Samuel. She’s not fighting it--” 

The mutant moaned and thrashed, a tiny form taking shape from it’s melting, bubbling skin. Sam gasped and sulfur and burning flesh caught in his throat. Brown sludge poured from the creature’s husk and the tiny figure shrieked again, shrill and terrified. Sam gave Xavier a look. The professor nodded and Sam shot forward. He plunged his gloved hands into the muck and pulled out a wriggling child, naked and screaming. 

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Sam soothed. He wiped quickly at her smoking skin, flinging away the melted mess that was left of the creature-body. Sam gagged and picked the child up, pulling her feet out of the sludge. The girl screamed again, screwing her eyes shut against her own blood. 

“Sam!” Bucky jogged toward him, brow furrowed. “The grass! Stop, drop--” 

“Here, honey.” Sam laid the girl down in a clean patch of grass. “Stop, drop and roll, like a fire.” 

The girl did her best, flopping onto her belly. Sam helped her roll, trying to keep his touch delicate. The goo peeled away from her skin in clumps, not fast enough for Sam’s taste--her flesh was already scarring. He tried to rub her down again but his gloves were beginning to smoke, the girl’s acidic blood seeping into the kevlar. 

“Step back, Wilson,” Stryker ordered. 

Sam raised his middle finger without looking back. The girl seemed about twelve, now that she wasn’t a forty-foot gremlin. Her skin may have been brown; it was hard to tell. Long, dark hair was plastered against her head and face in matted clumps. Sam peeled off his gloves and tried to help her sit up, rubbing her shoulders lightly. The girl flinched away from Sam’s grip. Her four brown-and-green eyes blinked frantically and her bottom lip quivered. 

“No,” she moaned. “No!” 

“It’s okay,” Sam lied, putting himself pointedly between the girl and the gathering soldiers. Their rifles would be raised, he knew, and pointed at the child. “You’re gonna be okay, honey, I know it hurts--” 

“‘Fesher,” the girl wailed. “P’fesher Charl--” 

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Xavier called. His wheelchair struggled forward over the gummy grass and Sam moved so the girl could see him. “You’re alright, now.” 

She’s not gonna be alright if they take her, Sam thought urgently. You got a safehouse, I’ll fly her out of here right now. 

You’d be shot down before you reach the river, the professor responded gently. For now, stall. Outloud, Xavier said, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” The girl whined, her bloody mouth falling open. Her teeth were twisted, canines grown into fangs and at least one set of incisors missing all together. 

“Can you tell me your name, now?” Xavier asked. 

“Mar--mar-shol,” the girl whispered. “Mar-shol Croosh. They’sh gonna kill me.” 

“They are not going to kill you,” Sam said firmly. 

“Cuff her,” Stryker ordered. 

Four soldiers stomped up to them, flanking Marisol in twos. The girl’s eyes went wide, red flashing over her pupils. 

“Marisol,” Sam said urgently, “if you hurt these men, they will kill you.” 

The child whimpered, her skin glowing reddish-brown underneath. One of the soldiers stepped forward. 

“Back up,” he barked, voice filtered by his helmet. “The mutant is being taken into custody.” 

Stall, Samuel. 

“Like hell she is!” Sam bellowed. He clutched the girl to him and flared his wings again. “You back up, asshole!” 

The soldier took aim. “We won’t ask again.” 

Almost there, Sam, Xavier urged. Sam set his jaw and ducked his head. 

“Take her!” Stryker barked. 

Two soldiers rushed forward and Marisol screamed again. 

“Breathe, baby,” Sam said, curling his body over the girl’s. “Breathe, okay? Whenever you get angry, or scared, you remember Sam’s gonna get you out, okay?” 

“Sham,” the girl wailed. 

It took three of them to rip her from him. They pushed her tiny body into the grass, gripping her by the neck. 

“Ow!” she shrieked, eyes flashing again. Sam dropped to his knees, held his face in her hands even as the soldiers wrenched her arms behind her back. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be there, I’ll get you home. Hold on.” 

The mag cuffs clicked into place around her wrists and the other two soldiers grabbed hold of her legs, dragging her back to cuff her ankles. They lifted the girl like a crate and she screamed. 

“Sh-Sham!” she bellowed. “Feshor!” She spat blood and her four eyes welled up with fresh tears. “Help!” she shrieked. 

Suddenly, Styker’s plane groaned. The right wing crumpled like paper and Sam ducked instinctively. The contracted soldiers’ guns went flying. 

“Put the child down!” a voice boomed. 

“Okay you know what? I am getting real tired of these surprise entrances,” Sam muttered. 

My apologies once again, Sam. Xavier caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He insisted. 

Magneto floated toward them, ridiculous cape fluttering in the wind. He waved his hand; Marisol’s cuffs opened and she dropped like a stone. She scrambled up and flung herself at Sam again, clinging to him with a bruising grip. He gathered her up anyway, petting her ratty hair. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered, “it’s okay.” 

“It’s a good thing I keep watch of you, Charles.” Magneto alighted next to the Professor’s wheelchair, touched his shoulder. “With all your love and compassion, you never do like to get your hands dirty.” 

“Lensherr,” Stryker snarled. “Been waiting to try this out on you.”  
  


He pulled something out of his vest, a soft silicon-looking orb, and hurled it in Magneto’s direction. 

Steve’s heavy weight crashed over him and Sam grit his teeth and curled beneath his husband, clutching Marisol to his chest. The bomb blew, shaking the entire island and then--nothing--a sound, maybe? Like a vacuum sucking away debris. Marisol passed out in his arms. When Sam raised his head, Wanda Maximoff smiled and offered him a hand. 

“Wanda!” Steve tripped over himself to get to her, grasping her arms. “I hadn’t--after the final battle, they said, we didn’t know if you were still--” 

She smiled. “It takes more than Thanos to kill me,” she said gently. “Hi, Sam.” 

“Hey, Wanda,” Sam said cautiously. “How’s it going, these days?” 

“It’s been better,” she admitted. “May I?”  
  


She held out her arms. Sam craned his neck to shoot Bucky a look, but Cap just nodded. His gaze never left the Scarlet Witch, like he was afraid she’d disappear before his eyes. 

“Falcon!” Magneto called. “I could hold these men all day, but I’m afraid the child does not have that kind of time!” 

Sam passed Marisol into Wanda’s embrace. As soon as the Witch’s hand touched her temple Mari’s eyes fluttered. She stared up at Wanda, her face slack. 

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe, sweetheart,” Wanda murmured. “Your friends felt your pain; they’ve asked us to help you.” 

“Okay,” whispered Marisol. 

Sam blinked and the four of them were gone. “You know--why even bother with Magneto’s entrance?” 

“Drama,” said Steve. 

“You!” Stryker bellowed, pointing a thick finger at Sam. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. She couldn’t just take them all out, too?” 

“That was one of _yours,_ Wilson, Barnes,” Stryker bellowed. A triumphant grin spread over his face. “You’re coming with me, now.” 

Bucky stepped forward, flexing his left arm again. “Wanda Maximoff was presumed to have given her life during the final battle for the Infinity Stones,” he snarled. “Whatever she’s doing now, however she’s back, she is no longer affiliated with the Avengers.” 

“I don’t have time for this,” Sam snapped. 

He turned and Stryker was suddenly too close, sour breath cloying. “I don’t know what you’re playing here,” he said low and dirty, “but I’ve got eyes on you, Wilson.” His rough fingers came up to grip Sam’s arm. “I’m not one of those fucking costumed freaks you like to play games with. You fuck with me, I’ll hurt you in ways that will make you wish you’d stayed dead.” 

Sam went stiff, and then Stryker’s hand was gone. Steve sat the man back down on both feet and clapped a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make his whole frame wobble. 

“I think that’s enough outta you,” he said. 

“Get off me,” Stryker snapped, shoving Steve’s hand away. He straightened his uniform collar and stared Steve down, mouth curling into a sneer. 

“Try that again and we’ll see just how far you can get without a shield,” he said, waving a hand at the wary soldiers behind him. 

“Touch my husband again,” Steve said brightly, “we’ll see how far you get without an arm.” 

Stryker paled and turned on his heel, making a beeline for his ride. Steve watched him go with narrowed eyes and a cheery wave. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sam muttered. 

Steve looked at him in surprise. “No,” he said carefully. “I didn’t.” 

Reporters converged as the belly of the plane closed. Lights flashed over Sam, the Avengers, the cooling pool of skin and blood left behind by Marisol’s horrific transformation. Steve touched his shoulder. 

“Go,” he said softly. “I’ve got this one, Sam.” 

“Damn right you do,” Sam snapped. He whistled sharply for Redwing and took off. 

“Sam,” Steve called. “Wait!” 

Sam’s hawk cried for him. He took his comm out of his ear and away they flew, headed for nowhere. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Please,” Sharon said urgently, “don’t hang up again.” 

The line crackled. “ _I told you people not to call.”_

“I understand, ma’am. I’m calling as a--personal interest. I brought Cameron in when he didn’t have anyone,” she said. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.” 

The documents before her told a clear story. Cameron Peoples had been returned January 21st, 2021, to his aunt Ava Rose Jackson, and grandmother, Katherine Lee Jackson, after nearly two years in government custody. He would have grown by now, and gained weight, baby cheeks filling out round and ruddy. 

The prized dog clutched in her hand held a story, too. 

_“You_ brought him in?” Mrs. Jackson snapped. _“You’re the one I have to thank for, then,”_ she said, _“for the pain and the worry--”_

“Ma’am--” 

“ _\--of him not being here when I got back? Do you have any idea what we thought--no word, no note, no nothing?”_

“I--I know. I’m sorry.” Sharon curled her hand protectively around the phone. FRIDAY didn’t record in Natasha’s suite, but instinct and training hushed her voice. 

“Please,” Sharon repeated. “If you could tell me anything. I’ll never contact you again.” 

A dry, rusted laugh answered her. _“What I’m supposed to tell you?”_ Katherine Lee Jackson choked for a moment, then let out an angry, shuddering breath. _“Last I saw my grandson was a week before I died_ . _His third birthday party.”_

Sharon swallowed. “So, is he with his aunt, then?.” 

He must be with his aunt. Cameron had never even _been_ to Geest labs. He’d stayed at the orphanage, they all had, every single child Sharon brought in from the hellish half-earth Thanos left them with. She’d tapped every remaining wire, pulled on every unbroken thread to search for the children on the lists _Haven_ provided, and brought them in to one of the few well-staffed, well-funded government programs left. She saw them every single damn day for two years before Thor called, before they found Thanos again. Geest was something separate and the dog--was easily explained as a coincidence. In a mass-production society, the odds of two small children having the same toy were well within the realm of probable. What happened at that lab was almost certainly horrific, but it had nothing to do with her kids. 

“Do you have her contact information?” Sharon pressed. “This number--” 

_“His aunt is dead,”_ Mrs. Jackson said sharply. _“She was killed in a car accident, four days after the resurrection_ .” 

“...Oh.” 

Sharon couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t remember how to fill her lungs. She dug her fingers into Brownie-the-dog’s grimy fur and had to set him down for fear of ripping the toy. 

_“Hello?”_ Katherine Lee Jackson snapped. _“Where is he? Why did you ask about my daughter?”_

“I’m sorry,” Sharon managed. In, out. She cleared her throat. “I shouldn’t have called.” 

_“Why did you call?”_ the older woman demanded. _“Where is my baby? What do you know? Please.”_ Her voice crumpled. 

_“Please,”_ she said. _“I just want to know he’s still alive. He’s my only--he’s all I have.”_

Sharon’s eyes burned and she wiped at her dry cheeks. She took a deep breath, let cold steel her voice. “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said briskly. “My information was incorrect. Please accept my sincere apologies. You’ll receive a follow-up in the mail within three days time.” 

_“But--”_

Sharon hung up. 

She opened the notebook Natasha had given her for their first year anniversary, clear cyrillic casting her married name in glittering gold. Cameron’s letters, Ariana’s, Quincey’s Rileys, Lilian’s, burned even as they sat folded neatly behind the last pages of the diary. Ten thousand, one hundred and nineteen children were taken in by _Haven_ from the United States and surrounding areas, fifty seven of them brought in personally by Sharon Carter. 

“Fry,” Sharon croaked. She closed her eyes, tried again, louder. “FRIDAY.” The robot’s microphone pinged to life. 

“I need you to get me a StarkPhone.” 

_“Of course,”_ said the AI. _“Any particular model, Agent?”_

“The latest, by the end of the day. I’ll give you the shipping address, but you give me the phone’s number before it leaves the warehouse, okay?” 

She ripped a gilded page from her notebook and listened to FRIDAY’s mic go quiet. 

“Darling?” 

Natasha knocked twice and stuck her head into the bedroom. “Oh, sorry.” She cast her eyes away. “Should I come back later?” 

Sharon forced a small smile. “No,” she said. “I’m ready; just a sec.” 

  
Natasha winked and closed the door again. Sharon counted to ten, opened the notebook back up. _Mrs. Jackson,_ she scribbled, _if he is still alive, I will find him. Wait for my call. SCR._

~~~

“So he didn’t get anything useful?” Sam said, shoulders sagging. Stark shook his head.

“He got something, alright. Just. Not what he thought.”

Stark pulled up a new, sparkling diagram in the middle of the lab and Sam fought the urge to groan. His entire body ached. He hadn’t been home yet because he _did not_ want to see Steve’s face. Bucky was busy brooding over Wanda in the corner, so Sam didn’t have him to bug. Natasha and Sharon huddled together at Stark’s abandoned worktable, heads bent low. Nat bit her lip and her suspicion tickled up Sam’s spine, uncomfortable pinpricks rolling up tick-tick-tick like a wartenberg wheel. He deliberately kept his gaze from Sharon--that was _so_ not his business.

Clint bumped his shoulder, chewing on a piece of popcorn. “Hey,” he stage whispered, pulling up a kernel between two fingers, “ten bucks says I can get this into Stark’s mouth without him noticing.”

“See, Matthew told us he brought in, just straight up data,” Tony continued, and spun the manipulative. Clint took aim. “But when you decrypt the files--”

“That’s a blueprint,” Sam realized.

He ignored Clint’s protest and stepped closer to the diagram. The building was an unusual shape, long halls forming a square around an empty center, and long lone walkway jutting out, ballooned at the end by a large docking bay. Sam frowned and pinched the diagram, blowing it up for a closer look.

“These walls are thick,” he muttered. “And layered. Is this--supposed to be an underwater structure?”

“Good eye, Wilson,” Stark said with a grin. “Underwater, and, if I’m right! Under the sea floor.”

“An underground, underwater base,” Barton deadpanned. “Really? That’s ridiculous, even for army.”

“And it’s not much of a lead,” Natasha chimed in. “Does the file indicate a location for this base? Actual build plans? Records?” Stark shook his head, and Widow sighed.

“So what we have--so far--is a story and weird building,” she said. “Great.”

“We also have what you got from Nevada,” Sam pointed out. “You, uh. Makin any progress on that?”

Natasha huffed and crossed her arms. “The encryption keeps re-writing itself,” she muttered. “I might have to run it through FRIDAY’s servers.”

“I could take a look at it,” Stark suggested. Natasha shot him a look and he threw up his hands.

“Nevermind!” he exclaimed. “Anway, even after that depressing fiasco, we also,” Tony whirled around to Bruce, who froze, hunched over his computer behind them, “may be onto something.”

Bruce sighed. “Of course,” he said. “Thanks, Tony. Um.” He pushed up his glasses and pressed a button on his laptop, replacing Tony’s diagram with his own. New York floated before Sam, light up with a smattering blinking green dots.

“Okay, so we know Stryker got tipped off pretty fast to her location,” Bruce said. “Well, we think we know why.”

“Bruce here ran some of the girl’s gunk through my nice clean scanners and voila!” Tony clapped his hands. Nothing happened. “Wait, you didn’t do the--”

“Marisol Cruz gives off a gamma radiation signature similar to the Hulk’s,” Bruce explained.

“Similar how?” Sam asked, horrified. “Surely not in scope? No offense, Bruce, but she’ll get sick so fast, man--”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Bruce said quickly. “Similar as in--unnatural. One of the reason Hulk’s physical state is so volatile is because well. He’s man-made,” Bruce said. “A forced mutation.”

“A forced mutation,” Sam repeated.

“Xavier said she was confused,” Bucky added, standing up straight for the first time all night. “Remember? Didn’t know how she ‘came to be in that state’ or something.”

“But she wasn’t--green, though,” Clint said with a wince. “Aren’t all gamma mutates green? Like, pretty much universally?”

“They are,” Bruce agreed. “And from what I can tell, she’s been exposed to a much more sophisticated form of radiation treatment than I got.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s still kind of like composing for piano with a sledgehammer, but at least there’s some thought behind it.”

“Is the X-gene present as well?” Sharon asked suddenly. Bruce nodded.

“As with most gamma mutates, yes, the X-gene is present. The one thing that’s weird, though, it doesn’t appear repressed.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why they didn’t just wait--”

“Not that I don’t love solving a good mystery,” Sam interrupted, “but what does having her radiation signature mean for us practically?”

“She’s with Wanda now,” Bucky muttered. “But maybe we can find out where she came from.”

“Bingo,” said Bruce, and then winced. “Gotta stop spending so much time with Tony. Okay, here--”

He shuffled back and pressed another key on his laptop. Most of the green dots flickered away, leaving on a small trail along Hudson, and one tight cluster smack in the middle of Raritan Bay.

“That takes all of _me_ away,” he said grimly, “which means--”

“That’s Mari.” Sam narrowed his eyes. He glanced at Natasha, who pursed her lips in response.

“So,” she said, pushing away from the wall. “No one’s talking about it yet, but--”

“What does this all have to do with each other?” Sam asked. Tony, to his surprise, shrugged.

“Maybe nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?” Natasha lifted her lip and barely held back a sneer. “Aren’t you a scientist, Stark?”

“What’s the connection, that’s all I’m asking,” he said, putting up his hands. “Kids? Crenshaw brought us something interesting, but he didn’t exactly bring us evidence of the mass U.S. kidnapping he claims happened.”

“Millions of children disappeared after Thanos,” Natasha pointed out. “They didn’t die, they just vanished. Thousands, just in the U.S., went missing after their parents and guardians died.”

“What’s your point?” said Stark.

“My point,” Nat snapped, “is that the government wouldn’t have to _kidnap_ anyone. They just needed to find the ones no one was there to miss.” She flicked her hair out of her face and glared.

“You should learn a little about the people you continue to manufacture weapons for, Tony,” she muttered. “Governments are _experts_ at how to break their own laws without stepping a toe out of line.”

“What we do have,” Sharon interrupted quickly, “is Stryker. Tied directly to both cases.” She cocked her head at Tony and he wisely closed his mouth.

“Let’s go from there,” she said. “If there’s a greater connection, it’ll come out in time.”

Sam approached the map again. “FRIDAY, what’s the aggregate down here?” He circled the little green cluster isolated in the bay. “Can you give us a clear coordinate?”

_“Of course, Falcon.”_ FRIDAY dropped a little pin in the middle. _“Will this do?”_

“Hey Stark,” said Bucky, “how do you feel about letting us have a go at that new sub?”

Tony clapped his hands delightedly and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Good,” he said.

He jerked his head. Sam followed him out of the lab but they bypassed the equipment room, making a beeline for the elevator. Bucky cleared his throat.

“My stuff’s upstairs,” he said awkwardly. “Look, I’m sorry. I told him it was a bad idea.”

“You knew he was going into the field?” That actually stung. “Barnes--”

“Uh, no.” Bucky kept him from the elevator with a gentle hand on his shoulder and stepped inside alone. He offered a quick smile as the doors closed. “Not what I meant.”

Sam watched the numbers click with a frown. “He’s such…”

“Sammy.”

Steve blocked half the hallway with his big shoulders, even as he tried to make himself seem small. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Don’t slouch,” he snapped. “It’s cheap, and it doesn’t work.”

Steve bit his lip and made a show of rolling his shoulders back, squaring up like he was ready for a fight. Sam just crossed his arms.

Steve sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Xavier saw the mutant from cerebro; he asked me to come along. I know you’re angry about it.”

Sam stared at him. “That’s it?” he said. “You’re not even going to _try_ to apologize?”

“I am sorry you’re upset, Sam,” he said earnestly. “Really. I wish--I was even trying to follow your advice, but--”

“Don’t turn this shit around on me,” Sam snapped, anger hot in his throat. “I asked you to do one damn thing--”

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve said quickly. He shuffled forward, then seemed to think better of it. “I meant,” he said, “I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” Sam snapped. “You could have said no.”

Steve sighed again. “You’re right, as usual,” he said wryly. “But you know. It’s hard.” He leveled Sam with a steady look. “Especially when someone I respect asks me for a favor.”

Sam shoved past him without another word. Steve always thought he was so damn clever; it killed Sam even more when he was right.

~~~

Sharon crossed her arms and squinted out over the water. Even under darkness, Raritan Bay was bright, rippling in the moonlight. Cars rushed down the highway behind them, a quiet roar shrouding their voices. Sharon glanced down at her watch, confirmed what she already knew.

“She found something.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at her. “She should have been back by now,” Sharon explained.

To her left, Sam shook his head with a wry laugh. “You know,” he said, “there was a time this woulda surprised me. A secret military base beneath the Hudson? Manufactured mutants? That can’t be real, I woulda said. You must be crazy.”

Bucky snorted. “And now, here you are.”

Wilson shook his head again. “Here I fucking am,” he grumbled.

Natasha surfaced a few yards offshore and raised a hand in greeting.

“What’s the verdict?” Bucky called. Natasha pulled the rebreather from her mouth.

“Found something!” she yelled. Sharon rolled her eyes and switched on their comms.

“Head out to the sub,” Nat said in her ear. She bobbed beneath the surface for a moment, then back up with a grunt, pushing her wet hair back. “I don’t wanna bring it to shore again.”

Sam laughed. “You’re just a bad pilot,” he teased. Natasha stuck her tongue out at him.

Sharon’s gut twisted a little. She put her hands on her hips. “You just want to see me in my wetsuit.” Natasha chuckled.

“Think you can swing a bikini?”

“Anything for you, darling,” Sharon drawled. Bucky cleared his throat and she shot him a grin.

The sub was made for three people at best. Bucky ended up in the well at the foot of the pilot’s seat, grumbling into Wilson’s knees--he insisted on taking them back down for the big dive--and Nat pulled Sharon into her lap in the back. For once it wasn’t even that sexy; every jolt or shudder that could have sent them tumbling into each other instead bruised their elbows and knees, left them gritting their teeth.

“If we find something down here, it’s gonna suck,” Barnes griped.

Natasha flat-stared him. “You want to get all these goose eggs for nothing?”

“How the hell are we gonna bring anything back?”

“Coming up on it, Widow,” Sam said over his shoulder.

Sharon slid up and Natasha shuffled to the front of the stealth sub, crouched on the other side of Wilson’s seat. “There’s a man-made boulder about twenty feet down, just one click shy of FRIDAY’s grid point,” she said. “Seems like some sort of entry point.” She said.

“You got a plan?”

“Preliminary scans show solid steel, about twenty inches thick,” Natasha reported. “That’s underneath the boulder’s surface. There seems to be only one lock.” She shrugged. “We could cut through, but once we’re inside there’s no guarantee we could pressurize without the existing airlock.”

Sharon fit her rebreather into place. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Sam ‘parked’ the sub, and she and Natasha went out. Sharon flicked on her shoulder light, scattering schools of shimmering fish into the murky undertow. As she flutter kicked her way deeper a smattering of rocks hazed into view.

“I’m assuming it’s the big one.”

“It’s not subtle,” Natasha agreed. “Follow me.”

Natasha pulled ahead, kicking her powerful legs with unfair ease. Sharon didn’t respond, just concentrated on her breath. Her legs burned and she had to force herself faster. Her wife would never let her live it down if she didn’t at least keep up.

Nat led them around to the south face of the largest boulder. The rock itself was real stone, virtually indistinguishable from the boulders surrounding it save for a sliver of dull metal about two inches wide. Sharon brushed over the piece and felt a circular groove radiating from the lock, etched into the boulder’s surface after years of repetition.

“It rotates,” Sharon realized.

“That’s what I thought,” Natasha said. “Now, watch this.”

She pulled off her right glove, flicked the lock with a single acrylic nail. A shrill, sharp ting answered.

“Adamantium?” Sharon asked.

“Pure,” Natasha confirmed.

“ _Hey,”_ Wilson said suddenly. His voice crackled. _“--e’re getting that sa--ocker signal again. St--this--ime.”_

Natasha huffed. She removed a Widow’s Bite from her utility belt and dug her nail into the groove on the side, pressed twice.

“Remember how they kept the power on?” Natasha said. Sharon nodded. “Well, I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume it’s also holding this lock in place.”

She attached a second Widow’s Bite to the lock. “Could use a big, strong man, right about now,” she quipped.

“Where’s Magneto when you need him, right?” Sharon joked.

_“--on’t jinx us--gain,”_ Barnes said darkly. _“I’m--y way.”_

Nat pinched each of the little discs firmly with two fingers. A shiver rattled through the boulder and the lock to shudder forward with a hiss. The curved piece that stuck out from the rock surface protruded from a squat cylindrical base, approximately six inches in diameter, and only jutting forward from the boulder about the width of her hand. Sharon gripped the newly emerged handle and gave an experimental tug. Natasha frowned at her and Sharon shook her head.

“Cap?” Nat asked.

_“Got you in my sights.”_

Sure enough, the little stealth sub whirred into view. Sam blinked the soft blue lights at them. The machine stopped and Barnes dropped from the hatch. He struck, powerful arms pulling him through the gloom, and touched Sharon’s shoulder in greeting.

“Lemme give it a tug,” he said.

“Try clockwise first,” Sharon suggested.

“Push it in first,” Nat added, “then rotate.”

Sharon snorted.

_“Ladies,”_ Wilson chided. _“Highly sensitive op, remember?”_

Bucky grunted, the plates of his arm shifting rapidly. Sure enough, he pushed the handle flush against the rock, turned clockwise until it lay perpendicular to its original position. He hummed, then yanked the metal back out.

Another shiver rocked the boulder. The door rolled back on invisible hinges, it’s grimy outer face giving way to chipped, polished steel.

“No life signs,” Sam reported. “Yet.”

Sharon followed her partner through the door. She could see almost nothing at first. The water inside the chamber was grimy with debris and viscous, greenish-black fluids. Her eyes finally focused enough to spot only one set of doors, also steel. She made her way over to Natasha, who was already tapping at a large keypad on the wall.

The hatch fell closed with a muffled thud. Sam and the sub touched down in the little concrete bay just as the floor groaned, great grates opening to suck the water away. Yellow lights flickered on overhead. Sharon took out her rebreather and leaned into her partner’s side, brushed her damp hair back to blink at Natasha’s fingers flying over the keys. Her little scanner was already hooked up, the LED in the corner flashing fiery purple.

“Lockpick?”

“Shouldn’t take too long,” Natasha muttered, rolling her eyes. “It’s military grade.”

Sharon put a hand on her shoulder and turned to properly survey the room. It was--messier than Geest Labs, that much was certain. Discarded equipment, shells, scuffs on the tiled walls all indicated recent, hectic use.

“Well, this is different.” Sam clambered out of the top hatch of the sub, red goggles already in place. He jumped to the bay and took a cautious step forward, raised one eyebrow at Sharon.

“Is that--good, you think?” he asked. “You’re the one who actually saw the other place.”

“...I don’t know,” Sharon admitted, crossing her arms.

“Got it,” said Natasha. She stepped back, cocked her head at the keypad. “The network is still up. The signal source is inside, and I can’t shut it down from here, but we should have comms now. No ship to surface,” she said apologetically. Barnes shrugged.

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll take out the source when we’re ready to go.”

“Hit it,” said Sam.

There was a click and then the steel doors slid apart with a sucking pop. A whoosh of cold, recycled air chilled Sharon’s damp skin, and she wished, childishly, for a towel. She took her place at Natasha’s side again, peered through the dim doorway.

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathed.


	4. Chapter 4

She didn’t recognize the stains, not at first. Her own blood, or Natasha’s, would dry brown if left on tile walls like these. What could have been an arm lolled with the rush of the doors closing behind them.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered, looking as green as she felt. “Holy shit, man. Is that--is that a torso?”

It was, half-splattered against the wall, but it didn’t belong to the arm. Wrong color, too many scales. Sharon squatted next to it. It was difficult to tell if the skin had always been a bruised purple, but there was no mistaking the bloat or the sweet brownish stench of rotted organs.

“Week at most, don’t you think?” Sharon murmured.

Natasha nodded. “Cap, Falcon--?”

Bucky’s arm whirred in the quiet, and then he unstrapped his rifle. The shield he tossed to Wilson, who caught it effortlessly. Natasha caught his eye and looked him up and down, her mouth quirking. Wilson rolled his eyes at her but a blush darkened his cheeks before he fell into position.

Sharon bristled. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but then Natasha’s hand whipped to her gun.

“Cap,” she said, “under the pink gunk.”

Barnes made a face but paused to kneel next to the stagnant pool of pink sludge to there left. There was an odd shape in the middle, which Sharon could now see was solid. Cap used his left hand to pluck it from the mess and shook it a little, greyish pink flecks flying off in every direction.

“Helmet,” he reported, turning the gear upside down. “Army standard issue.”

“No, wait.” Wilson stepped toward him, frowning. “There’s extra padding. And look at the side--”

Bucky peeled away more pink and sure enough, a lion’s head engraved in blue snarled at them from the helmet’s dented side.

“Contractors,” Natasha murmured. “Like Crenshaw.”

Sam grimaced and gestured to the bloody, discolored hand inches from his boot. “You don’t think--”

“Another ‘clean out’ order,” Nat said grimly. “Only it looks like this one didn’t go so well.”

“What, and nobody came to clean _this_ up?” Sam said incredulously. Nat shrugged.

“I’m not an evil genius; I don’t know how their minds work.”

Sam rolled his eyes and adjusted the shield on his arm.

“Stay alert,” said Cap. “Move out.”

There were no rooms down the long hall, just empty canvas for carnage. They walked in silence. The smell became steadily unbearable, sweet-sick rotting that roiled in Sharon’s stomach. She finally shoved her rebreather back into her mouth, and saw that Wilson had already done the same.

“According to the blueprint Mattie brought us, there should be a fork up ahead,” he said, frowning at his gauntlet screen. “Gotta be the main hallway.”

“Pick it up,” Barnes muttered. His face was pinched. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to.”

The walkway dead-ended into a white-tiled perpendicular hall. The sign above the split read: US ARMY LABORATORY 18 - SKYGGE. The first recognizably human bodies lay below it. One of them was most likely the lone helmet’s owner--his head was gone, rifle still clutched in his hands. The other was a non-combatant, half-hidden behind the soldier. Her white coat hung in shreds and her face was frozen in twisted anguish, bloody hands fallen away from her split belly.

“Hitcher,” Bucky read, leaning close to the woman with a frown. “LH?”

“Lab head, probably,” Natasha said. “Falcon, with me. Keep your comms on, rendezvous at this point in twenty no matter what. Checkin in ten.”

Sam moved toward the left hallway without prompting, flashing Natasha a wry smile as he slipped into point. They moved seamlessly, silently. Natasha followed Sam through the first doorway, splattered in sick milky pink, not unlike what they’d found in the walkway. She emerged only seconds later, mouth in a tight line. Sam jogged out behind her, put his hand on her shoulder without looking to give Natasha a moment to collect herself. Sharon’s gut tightened.

“Carter.”

Cap jerked his head to the right. A downed cabinet blocked their progress, spilling out of the first room to the right and caught on the opposite wall as it fell. It wobbled even at her light approached, balanced as it was on one chipped corner. Sharon cocked her head, then nodded. She crouched, wedged herself into the low triangular space between the cabinet and the wall, her back to the steel, feet planted firmly. Cap’s left fingers curled around the edge of the unit, where part of a door had been peeled back like film coating.

“Gonna tip it upright, then you push,” said Barnes. “On three. One, two--”

Cap grunted. There was a booming thump as the unit settled onto its left side edge and for a moment Sharon took its full weight across her back. She swallowed down instinctive panic, locked her knees and pushed. There was another groan and a scrape, and a final thud as the cabinet sat back into the destroyed doorway from whence it came.

“There,” said Cap.

Sharon stood straight and tipped her head back against the cool metal.

“You take point,” she grossed. “I can’t trust you with my back anymore.” Bucky snorted but did as she bid, boots splashing through discolored puddles.

It was impossible to tell at first glance how many bodies littered the laboratory, ripped and rendered as they were. They also began to see huge dents in the facility walls, burned at the edges. Barnes frowned and touched a few of these lightly with his flesh fingertips, muttering something under his breath that Sharon couldn’t be bothered to translate.

Their side of the facility held about ten rooms, and each appeared to house at least one casualty. Occasionally a military body turned up. The cells bore reinforced adamantium doors with locking mechanisms similar to the one that guarded the facilities outermost hatch, though these were fit with bioscanners. The rooms themselves held the remnants of various items, from toothbrushes and toilet paper rolls to squashed pieces of plastic that could have once been Legos.

Geest must have been similar, before its dismantling. A holding pen for patients--children--to what? Die? Bucky threw a blanket over the surprisingly whole corpse of a little girl with the remnants of glossy wings sprouting along either side of her rendered spine.

No, not die. “To mutate,” Sharon muttered.

“What?” Barnes frowned at her. She shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said. She pressed the back of her hand to the girl’s cold cheek. “We shou--”

 _“Thirteen, get to the south wing, stat,”_ Natasha barked. _“Barnes, get back to the sub and contact Stark. Emergency medical, now.”_

Sharon’s pulse jumped, but it wasn’t Natasha wasn’t Natasha wasn’t her, she’s still right there, breathing, speaking, existing.

“Sam?” Bucky was already speeding out of the doorway.

 _“Not now,”_ Sam snapped. _“I’m working with a limited kit here.”_

Sharon sprinted down the hallway, hot at Cap’s heels. He split away from her at the fork and she barrelled past without looking, dodging bodies and blood and broken things. A living soldier sat collapsed against a wall, his chest moving shallowly. Sharon kept moving. Natasha’s arm flew out of the second to last room on her left, nearly closinging Sharon in the process. She gripped the collar of her wetsuit and stared at some point behind Sharon’s head. Her mouth was slack, and for a moment she didn’t even try to speak, didn’t even breathe, a doll.

Sharon’s heart stopped. She put her hand over Natasha’s, squeezed. “Darling?”

Her partner’s face twisted and shivered back to life. She shook her head. “I’ve gotta keep going,” she muttered, refusing to catch Sharon’s eye. “Help Sam.”

“Nat, what--?”

“Don’t,” Nat snapped. “Just. Later.”

“Need more hands in here!” Sam bellowed. Sharon sidestepped the fallen vibranium shield and hurried into the room.

~~~

Natasha was anxious. Her posture was perfect, one foot in front of the other with her gun held aloft in a textbook straight-thumbs grip, but nevertheless, her jitters wracked Sam’s spine.

“Nat,” he said, “relax.”

Widow exhaled deeply through her nose and shot him a look. “That’s creepy,” she said. Sam shrugged.

“You’re the one that took a whole bare-handed grip of the Soul Stone, woman,” he reminded her. “Nobody told you to do that--”

“Nobody _told me_ that I’d get stuck inside your head, Wilson,” Nat muttered. She stuck her head in the next room, pursed her lips, and they moved on.

“I don’t know what to expect, with this,” she admitted quietly. They passed yet another mangled soldier, his chest caved in and burned into a charred, sticky mess. “I haven’t felt like that in a while.”

“And?” Sam prompted. He could see her real worry hiding in the clench of her jaw.

Natasha stopped and waited until he drew level with her to sigh. “I think Sharon’s lying to me,” she said, eyes downcast. “And it’s killing me a little.”

A hacking cough interrupted Sam’s reply and both their weapons flew up. Sam took point, holding the shield to protect his chest. Ahead and to the right a door was open just a crack. The light in the cell was out, and inside Sam could hear laboured breathing.

“Three,” Sam murmured, “two, one--”

He busted open the door. The soldier cowering in the corner ripped the pin out of his granade and tossed. Sam flipped the shield and held it over the bomb. Natasha fired off two Widow’s Bites and the man grunted. His grenade boomed under Sam’s shield. The soldier lurched forward and Sam whipped the shield across the floor and knocked the man off his feet. He hit the bolted-in bed on the way down and yelled.

Natasha was on him in an instant, gun leveled at his skull. She kneeled on his chest and the man put both his hands up--or his left and what remained of his right. His black BDUs had a roaring blue lion stitched into the left thigh.

“What’s your outfit?” Widow demanded. The man coughed again and groaned.

“Outfit’s gone,” he wheezed. “Shit went wrong, and they just--God, they just locked the fucking doors--”

He coughed again. “That fucking-- _devil_ found me, finally,” he said. “Didn’t think there were any freaks left.”

“Children,” Sam snapped. “You didn’t think there were any children left? Thought you murdered all the babies?”

The soldier sneered at him, blood in his teeth. “I’d be more worried about what that thing’s gonna do to you, Cap,” he said. “Ow fuck!” Natasha dug her knee in harder.

“Where did these children come from?” she demanded. The soldier shrugged and she adjusted her stance so she was kneeling on his left kidney, driving a whine out of the man.

“What exactly were your orders?”

“Look,” the soldier choked. “We just clean out what’s left. I don’t know where they took the others, okay--”

“Took the others?” Sam stepped forward. “Some of these kids are still alive?”

The soldier paled. “I’m not saying shit!” he said, mustering the urge to raise his voice. “I’m not--”

Natasha’s gun cracked swiftly across his temple, and he fell quiet. “That’s enough,” she muttered. “Here, help me drag him out.”

They propped the soldier up in the hallway and stripped him of his remaining weapons. There was a half-eaten sandwich in the cell where he’d hid, and a cracked metal canteen. Natasha poked around in the refuse with a wrinkled nose.

“He hasn’t been here too long,” she muttered. “Three, maybe four days at most.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a soft whimper caught his ear. He raised an eyebrow at Nat. “Thought you knocked him out good,” he said. She frowned at him.

“I did,” she said slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Then again, a little whimpering snarl, like a wolf trapped in a snare. Nat heard it this time, her body coiling up.

“From the right,” Sam whispered. “I’ll lead.”

~~~

Sharon did not know the boy by the bed. A pang of relief tinged off her skull and she tamped it down ruthlessly. He was wedged between the bed and the wall, his small shaved head cradled in Sam’s lap. He breathed deep, shallow breaths and his eyes were a deep, bloody red. He held what was left of his right arm up to his chest. The skin stretched smooth and angry pink over the stump, and blood, both fresh and dried, coated the boy’s dirty Star Wars pajamas. His chapped mouth parted when he caught sight of Sharon and he struggled in Sam’s arms.

“Ssh, baby,” Falcon murmured. “Sharon, this is Jonah. Jonah, this is Miss Sharon.” He switched hands and Sharon realized he was pressing a clean towel to the boy’s stomach.

“Say ‘hi, Miss Sharon.’”

The boy groaned instead, his little back arching even as Sam pressed him down.

“Oh, hey, I know,” Sam cooed. “It’s gonna be alright, I promise.”

“It hurts,” the boy whined. Sharon knelt by his poor, bruised feet and tried for a smile. His toenails were long and black and curled, like his nails, into wicked talons. A fresh glut of blood stained Sam’s towel and Sharon had to shush the boy.

“Hi there, buddy,” she said. His red eyes snapped to her and went wide, like he’d forgotten she was there. “It’s gonna be okay, alright? Our friends are getting help.”

She shot Sam a look and he shook his head.

“He came at me before we knew who he was,” he whispered. “He was covered in this hair--looked like a werewolf. Natasha--she shot him without thinking.” Sam’s face pinched. “He screamed. We didn’t know--”

“Miss,” said the boy. “Wanna go home.”

“You’ll go home, sweetie,” Sam said. His eyes flicked to the hospital bed. “We have to get the bullet out.”

Sharon gaped at him. “What?”

“Ow!” the boy wailed. He screamed again, louder and longer than such a small body should have been able to manage.

“It’s one of Natasha’s new Stingers,” Sam muttered. “It’s made for healers like Wolverine or Laura Kinney. Burrows in as the body tries to push it out--”

Jonah shrieked, his eyes bulging. He threw off Sam’s arms and Sharon caught him with a grunt. He dug his talons into her shoulders and clung.

“Hurts!” he shouted. **_“HURTS.”_ **

“Okay, we have to do it now.” Sam opened his medical kit at the head of the bed and pushed back his goggles. “Lay him down.”

Sharon leaned over the dirty sheets and pried the boys talons from her wet suit. “Jonah,” she said gently, “we need to look at your tummy.”

“No!” the boy wailed. He tried to get up again, and Sharon held his shoulders. “It’ll fix! It’ll fix!”

“Sharon, put pressure on that,” Sam ordered. “Your body is trying to fix it, baby, but it’s making things worse. That’s why it hurts.” He set out a scalpel, tweezers, and gauze, snapped one latex glove into place.

Jonah’s talons flexed and his eyes bulged again. His dark black hair thickened and began to spread. He thrashed, nearly sending Sharon into the wall.

“No! No! **_No!”_ ** Jonah roared. **“** **_IT’ll FIX! STOP IT--”_ **

Sharon’s hand shot out faster than thinking and she had to soften her grip on the boy’s chin. His eyes went wide and glassy, little fanged mouth hanging open.

“We have to take the bullet out of your stomach first,” Sharon said, “then it can fix.”

“The red lady shot me,” Jonah realized. “It’s still in there?”

“Yes.”

Jonah’s chin wobbled. “How’re you gonna get it out? Don’t get the blue pills first,” he whispered. “Please, Miss, I don’wanna go to sleep.”

“Nah, you have to stay awake, little man,” Sam said. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything I’m doing so you know, okay?”

Jonah didn’t reply, just watched Sam’s hands in their white gloves. “I need to take of your shirt first,” Sam told him. “Stay still.”

He ripped the boy’s long-sleeve neatly down the middle, exposing the gushing mess of his wounded belly. Jonah had already bled far more than any child his size was capable of under normal conditions, and his skin was pallid. The boy whimpered.

“Hey,” said Sharon, “why don’t you tell me about your favorite toy?”

His eyes flicked to her. “...Mickey,” he whispered.

Sharon made her eyes big. “Mickey Mouse?” she said excitedly. “That’s my favorite cartoon!”

Jonah flashed a little grin. “Mickey’s hiding,” he told her.

“Well, it sounds like he has the right idea,” said Sharon. “Where’d you get him?”

“The people gave’m to me.”

“Your first day here?” Sharon asked, her heart sinking.

“Yeah,” Jonah said, “first day here.”

Just like Cameron.

“Okay, buddy,” Wilson said, setting his dirtied gauze aside. “I have to make an incision, now. You know what ‘incision’ means?”

Sam kept up his even, detailed narration as he pulled the boy’s belly taut and split open the wound. The bullet had dug itself deep. Its serrated spirals continued to whirl even as Wilson pulled it free of Jonah’s shuddering body. He sat it aside with a soft _plink._

“You did real good, hon--whoa.”

Jonah’s wound began to steam. Wilson jerked his hand away with a hiss. “Sh--oot, that’s hot,” he said. The boy’s skin bubbled and reformed before their eyes.

“Is--this what happened to your arm, Jonah?” Sharon asked. “It fixed itself?”

The boy nodded again, lifted his right arm with a wince. “Still hurts.”

“I bet,” said Sam. “Can you tell me what happened to your arm?”

The boy shrugged. He flexed his remaining hand, matte black talons catching a yellow-fluorescent sheen. “Tatianna,” he whispered. “She got angry.”

“Was she one of the other...patients here?” Sam asked. The boy nodded unhappily. “And she got mad?”

“Yeah.”

“Or was she scared?”

The boy whimpered. “She gots scared. She pushed me.”

“Oh, honey,” Sam sighed. “She push you inside? You try to get out your room, and she pushed you back in?”

Jonah nodded, tears welling in his big red eyes. “It was so loud,” he said. “The guards, they--”

A warped, tired alarm blurred through the loudspeaker and the lights cut out. Jonah shrieked again, and Sam let out a soft grunt. Sharon flexed her grip on her pistol.

 _“Uh,”_ said Barnes over the comm.

 _“We gotta boogie, gang,”_ Natasha said. _“Superman here tripped an alarm when he suckerpunched the doors.”_

 _“It worked,”_ Barnes muttered.

Wilson scooped Jonah up from the bed. The boy barely clung to consciousness. Sharon did one last sweep of the room, grabbed the dirty Mickey Mouse doll peeking out from under the bed. She turned to follow them out the door and was met with Wilson’s broad back.

She frowned. “Make a better door than a window, Falcon,” she said. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“We’re gonna have a talk later,” he said. Sharon raised an eyebrow.

“We are?”

He turned and leveled her with a steely gaze that would have done Natasha proud. “You’re hiding something,” he said simply. Sharon’s stomach plummeted through the floor but she kept her face still.

“Were?” she said, choosing to concentrate on the secondary sting. “What happened, Wilson?”

“I don’t know,” Sam snapped. “I died.” He picked up Captain America’s forgotten shield and left her in the cell.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve watched him pace instead, listening with a furrowed brow and soft eyes. Sam felt hot as the steam billowing off Jonah’s wounds, wound tighter than Natasha’s sharpest garrote. When he finally fell silent Steve patted the spot next to him and Sam gladly collapsed onto their bed. Steve tugged at his arm, pulled him so he was draped over the super-soldier’s broad chest. 

“I’m glad you found him,” he said quietly. “And he’s gonna be okay?” 

“Well, he’ll pull through,” Sam muttered. “He’s at Udaku Children’s." 

“Have they contacted his parents?” 

“They can’t,” Sam said hollowly. “Whoever had him made sure that this kid doesn’t _exist_ anymore. There’s not a single DNA match for him in any system. They’re scanning birth records for his footprint and the name he gave. But it’s slow going.” 

“And the base just--sealed itself up, huh?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, after your best buddy started playing punch-buggy with the airlock doors.” He sighed. “All sealed up, and it’s records with it.” 

Steve rubbed his side and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “They’ll find something,” he murmured. They fell quiet for a beat. 

“I wonder how long he’d been down there.” Steve shifted his weight so he could wrap his other arm around Sam. “How long he’d been a ‘patient’, I mean.” 

“He didn’t really seem to know,” Sam said. “Kid said he was with his parents before ‘the Reaping’, but he didn’t know what happened to them.” 

“They probably died,” Steve said quietly. 

“Probably.” Sam closed his eyes and listened to his husband’s heartbeat. 

“Hey,” he said, a sudden Nat-thought popping into his head, “didn’t Sharon do something with kids during the Dead Year?” 

Sam hated that stupid term. _Dead Year._ Sam had been locked away in the Soul Stone for _two_ years, seven months, and fifteen days. And there were a whole lot of people who weren’t dead during that time. Including Sharon Carter and whatever she was hiding. 

Steve hummed. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “Worked for this program called _Haven,_ I think. Funded by what became of the Department of Education. 

“They used schools as gathering places for children whose parents were gone,” Steve explained. “Then they sent people out to look for the kids who didn’t show up.” 

“People like Sharon,” Sam said. “Okay, I got you.” 

“You know, now that you mention it,” Steve continued, “it’s funny. I was sure she told me Vegas was one of her sites.” 

Sam fought to keep from going stiff. “Really,” he said. “She hasn’t mentioned it.” 

“You think there’s a connection?” Steve asked. 

“No,” Sam said, too quick. “No!” he said again, when Steve craned his neck to look at him. “It just struck me, her and kids, that’s all.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” 

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said, anger ready to fly from his tongue. “It’s Avengers stuff, anyway.” Steve frowned. 

“You know,” he said, “the Avengers are our friends, too. They’re still part of my life.” 

“Your personal life,” Sam corrected him. “What’s going down in our briefing room is work. I’d like to try to keep those separate.” 

“What, my personal life and your work?” Steve snorted. “Sam, my husband just vented to me for a good forty-five minutes about his work. That’s pretty personal.” 

Sam huffed, but Steve sat up before he could reply, jostling him out of his comfortable position. 

“Is this still about Harlem?” he asked, and yes, goddamnit, it was. “Look, I’m sorry things got so sticky, but I promise, I didn’t do it just because you were there.” 

Stupid, unjustifiable, unexpected hurt stabbed at Sam’s heart. _So you wouldn’t have come for me?_ he wanted to yell. _Not good enough, dead or alive, am I?_ He swallowed it down and rolled his eyes. 

“You’re just gonna do what you’re gonna do, huh,” Sam snapped. “Just pick up a shield whenever you want to, regardless of what it means for me.” 

Steve’s eyes went wide and his face--broke a little. “Sammy,” he said softly. “You gotta know I--” 

“I’m going out with Widow,” Sam decided. He stood, grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch and didn’t look at his husband’s face again. “Don’t wait up.” 

~~~ 

Sharon tucked a long, curling strand of red behind Natasha’s ear and thought about her answer. Approximately one-hundred and thirty eight freckles adorned her wife’s cheeks. Sometimes Sharon counted more, sometimes less. Sometime she found them in unexpected places, like the soft skin behind her ear or the crease of her thigh. Natasha liked to joke that for a spider, she loved to change her spots. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about my _Haven_ kids.” Natasha nodded. “I lost touch with almost all of them.” Sharon snuggled down deeper into the blankets. There was a new spot, she thought, kissin the right corner of Natasha’s left eye. “I’m just worried about what may have happened to them.” 

It was technically the truth. 

Nat curled her fingers in Sharon’s sweaty hair, sharp nails sending shivers down Sharon’s spine from the base of her skull. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “But Share, no matter what happened to them when their parents came back, you still made a difference.” 

Natasha’s comfort curdled in Sharon’s ears. _A difference._ That much was true. And maybe a positive difference, for some. _Haven_ harbored thousands of children; if all of them never turned up home again after their parents came back to life, there would have been national uproar. Besides, Sharon’s other children came up clean--maybe only Cameron ended up as a lab rat in Geest. 

“Sharon?” 

But what would that mean for her? Sharon kissed her wife and rolled over in her arms. Eight years after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, and she was still making the same damn mistakes? 

“Will you just--hold me for a while?” she whispered. “I can’t--” 

Warm arms slipped around her and Natasha pressed herself to Sharon’s back, narrow chin digging into her shoulder. 

“Always, darling,” she murmured. 

Sharon sighed. It didn’t matter. Her connection was still a hunch at best. 

“Thank you,” Sharon whispered. “I love you.” 

“Always.” 

~~~ 

“I’ve missed this, man,” Mattie murmured. He blew another ring into the dark, the lit tip of his cigarette reflected in his dark eyes. Sam took a drag off his own and relished the smoke curling dangerous in his throat. 

“Me too,” he said. “Don’t tell my husband.” 

Mattie laughed. “He seems nice,” he offered. Sam snorted. 

“He is. Just.” Sam waved into the night air. “Worries too much sometimes.” 

“I feel that though, man,” Mattie said. “Used to worry about my man all the time.” 

He eased back in his chair, absently watching a moth flutter up to the porchlight. The safehouse was small, innocuous, and well in the middle of backwoods Connecticut. It was nice though; the porch on which Mattie and Sam sat was wide and sturdy, and the fridge inside was well stocked. Sam probably shouldn’t be there but, hey. Mattie was moving out tomorrow, headed down to one of his contacts in Texas. 

“I think sometimes,” Mattie continued, “you see such horrible shit, and it makes you really afraid, not for yourself, but for the people you love, you know?” He shrugged, propping his elbow on the armrest and putting his chin in his hand. 

“I can get that,” Sam acquiesced. The thought of Steve disintegrating, of his atoms being blown apart and sucked through the air into the tiny space of an infinity gem tied Sam’s stomach into knots. 

“It’s just,” he sighed. “I don’t know.” 

Mattie laughed. “Yeah, you do,” he said. “What’s up? You knew who Cap was when you married him, right? Why’s his gung-ho attitude bothering you now?” 

“I married Steve Rogers,” Sam said sharply, _“not_ Captain America.” 

“You married both,” Mattie said, rolling his eyes. A blush crept into Sam’s cheeks. He’d forgotten how well this man knew him, how sharp his gaze could cut. 

“So what’s _actually_ wrong, Sammy?” he asked. “The fuck’s up with you?” 

Sam shook his head, bit back a reflexive smile. “It’s petty,” he admitted. 

“Try me.” 

“It’s just--” Sam sighed. “You know, after everyone died Steve just cut out.” Mattie raised an eyebrow at him and Sam nodded. “Yep. Just--I don’t know, couldn’t do it anymore. Got a cabin in the woods and everything. _Built_ a cabin,” he said. “And just stopped. Didn’t talk to anyone but Sharon and Nat a couple times.” 

“But he was in the battle, right?” Mattie asked. “The Big Bang? When they beat him.” 

Sam shook his head. “Nope.” 

“What?” 

“Didn’t answer the call.” Sam shrugged. “He doesn’t really talk about it too much. Told me once that he just couldn’t stand it, if they’d lost.” _Told me he knew he would die if he fought,_ he didn’t say. _He would die, before he ever got to see Sam again._

“And now,” Sam said, flicking the ash off his cigarette, “I can barely keep him out of the field. It’s like--” he tipped his head back, closed his eyes against Mattie’s gaze and the interloping stars. 

“It’s like, I’m not good enough,” he admitted. “I’m not a good enough reason for him to fight, not a good enough reason for him to stop. What do I do, Mattie?” Sam squeezed his eyes tighter against stinging tears. “How the fuck do I manage that?” 

“I don’t know, man,” Mattie sighed. “Maybe--look, maybe you have it backwards.” 

Sam sat up and glared at him. “Backwards?” he snapped. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Well, maybe you _were_ Cap’s reason for being in the field,” Mattie said with a shrug. “And then--shit, you died, man. Half of us did. 

“And I mean, what did you do when Riley went down?” he pointed out. “You got out for him; you got back in for your husband.” Mattie took another drag of his cigarette. “Maybe Cap did the same thing.” 

“Then why wouldn’t he just tell me that,” Sam complained, his cheeks hot again. “Why just let us fight about it all the time?” 

“Have you let him talk?” Mattie countered with a raised brow. “Or have you been so twisted up over this shit in your own head you just hear what you wanna hear?” 

Sam’s heart sunk. “...I hate you,” he muttered. Mattie laughed and jostled his shoulder. 

“That’s what friends are for, man,” he said. “Speaking of which--” His watch beeped and he glanced at it. 

“Your girlfriend should be here any minute to pick me up.” 

Sure enough, a car pulled around the corner of the long gravel drive. Nat flashed her headlights twice and Mattie raised a hand in greeting. 

“Okay, Natasha is _not_ my girlfriend,” Sam complained. “I think my husband and her _terrifying wife_ would both agree on that.” 

“Whatever, man.” Mattie grinned. “You both might be gay, but I still say there’s something there.” 

“Technically, I’m bi.” 

“See?” 

“Shut up man--hey, Nat!” Sam called. Natasha’s face was pinched and he stood up too fast, nearly spilling the half-empty beer at his feet. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Natasha was carrying a duffle bag and set of keys, which she tossed to Mattie. She was already in her suit. 

“My bikes in the back,” she said briskly. “We have to go; the hospital is under attack.” 

Sam stood. “Jonah?” 

“Jonah. Crenshaw, you’re gonna be on your own--.” 

Mattie nodded and raised his free hand. “No worries,” he said. “I’ll be good from here, man, thank you.” 

Sam opened the door to the cabin. 

“Forget the bike,” he said. “My way’s faster.” 


	6. Chapter 6

“This is the last time you talk me into anything!” Natasha shrieked. 

A laugh broke through the grim set of Sam’s mouth. “You’re welcome” he yelled. He tightened his grip around Natasha’s waist and she yelped as he swerved around another half-destroyed skyscraper. 

“I’m gonna kill you, and Cap, and then Tony,” Nat promised over the wind. 

Sam laughed again. “Why Tony?” 

“Why not?” 

Sam brought up his flight plan on his goggles. New York’s skyline was constantly shifting, and even in the city lights dead skyscrapers hid. He shot through ruins and shining chrome. He banked sharply to avoid an old crane his map didn’t catch, but Natasha’s delighted _whoop!_ smothered the worry winding around in his gut. She tilted her head back and let her arms fall away from him, spreading her fingers through the wind, trusting his grip. 

_“Falcon!”_ FRIDAY exclaimed. _“Shots fired on the twenty-fifth floor! Emergency evacuation procedures initiated.”_

“Copy,” Sam snapped. “Who’s on the ground?” 

“Barnes!” Nat shouted. “Carter’s incoming!” 

Finally the hospital careened into view. Sam turned sharp to the right and flared his wings, gilded them tight between two rotting skyscrapers. Another strange, popping blast echoed through Sam’s comms and Bucky cried out. 

“Cap,” Nat said sharply. “Report.” 

Bucky’s harsh breath was the only answer for a moment. _“Functional.”_ He grunted and another man’s scream cut through the line. _“Hurry. Sam, cut them off at the end of the hall. Widow, get the--”_

Bright, muffled pops flared behind the tinted glass, sparklers on the Fourth. Bucky’s line went dead. 

“Fuck it,” Natasha snapped. 

She let go. Sam bit back a shout and grasped her arm, dug his fingers in for good measure. “Come on!” he shouted. “Warn me next time!” 

The window broke under her bullets, spider-web white cracks veining black. Sam swung Nat back and heaved, allowing her wrist to slip through his fingers. He ignored the drop in his stomach and banked sharply and didn’t wait to see if she landed. 

“Widow’s in,” Sam said. “Cap, do you copy?” 

His comm crackled. _“Sam!”_ Jonah shrieked. _“HELP!”_

The building’s alarm screamed through his earpiece and Sam put on a burst of speed. He laid down a spray of bullets and threw his body back, smashing through the remaining glass boots first. He landed in a roll and closed his wings just in time. Bullets rattled his back and Jonah screamed through the comm. 

_“Sam!”_ he wailed. _“Cap!”_

Five contractors marched toward him, decked out black BDUs and green helmets bearing a set of white dice. Sam took out two of the squad with a sweep of his wings and kicked a third away into his companion. Two shots glanced off his right wing. He fired, taking out the merc’s knees as the fourth man struggled to his feet. He bellowed and charged for Sam, a knife clutched in his fist. Sam darted to the side and grabbed his wrist and yanked, cracking his arm at the elbow. He let the screaming man drop and silenced him with a swift boot to the temple. 

_“Help!”_ Jonah screamed again. 

Sam followed the sounds of gunshots down the hall and around the corner. Two men lay at Cap’s feet and a third collapsed in the doorway. Another two green-and-black uniformed mercenaries raised their guns. The third man carried a bloodied nurse by the neck of her scrubs. Her chest heaved. 

“It’s okay!” she wheezed. “Baby I’m so sorry--” 

“Freak for the nurse,” one of the men snapped. Sam’s lip curled; what a fucking idiot. 

“Jonah,” he said, “get behind me.” 

“No!” Jonah bellowed. “He gots--!” 

There was a sharp crack the merc froze, his mouth twisted into a silent shriek. Natasha pushed the nurse into an open room and shoved the man’s own knife into his throat. His partners scattered. Sam shoved Jonah behind him and sprang into action, catching one of the mercs around the neck and flipping him away. He kicked another in Bucky’s general direction and couldn’t help but enjoy the yelp that followed. Natasha knelt over the last man, her expression grim. 

“The elevator’s moving,” she said. 

“Sammy, you gotta get the kid outta here,” Cap panted. Bucky held his left arm oddly, as if he’d somehow dislocated the prosthetic shoulder. 

“Captain ‘merica!” Jonah darted around Sam and threw himself at Bucky. “You got hurt!” he said. “Stop!” 

Bucky let out a startled laugh. “I’ll try, kid.” 

Natasha hauled Jonah into her arms. “Let’s go,” she ordered. Sam followed at her heels. Jonah struggled but Widow held him fast, heedless of the talons sinking into her suit. 

“You threw Nana!” he accused. “Nurse Nana!” 

“Nana will be okay,” Natasha murmured. “But she’d be really sad if you got hurt, wouldn’t she?” 

“...yeah,” Jonah whispered. 

The northwest corner was fashioned into a small waiting area with huge bay windows and a good sturdy table. Sam looked at Natasha, who nodded. 

_“Sorry I’m late,”_ said Sharon over the comms. _“Sit rep?”_

“Twenty fifth floor,” Natasha reported. The elevator dinged and she shoved Jonah into Sam’s arms. “Seven-man squad incoming.” 

_“I’ve got at least two more squads down here.”_

“Leave them alive,” Bucky snapped. 

Sam covered Jonah’s ears and Cap shot out the big bay window. “Cap,” Jonah moaned. “Don’t _leave him_ , Misser Sam, he’s hurt!” 

“He’ll be okay, buddy, he’s a big boy,” Sam assured him. “He--” 

_“Move!”_

Sam dove on instinct. Natasha’s body flew past him and crashed into the window seal. Bucky bellowed. Sam scrambled up, gasping, holding Jonah close to his burning chest. Natasha’s blood--real and not-real--dripped down the back of his head. Precious red pooled around her broken body. Her head lolled and her chest--God, Stark must have looked like that, on the operation table when they first shoved that battery into his chest. A large short-range projectile lay quiescent by her legs. 

“Barnes!” he gasped, but Bucky was slumped against the right wall where Natasha had knocked him aside to take the blow meant for him. 

“Carter!” Sam tried. “Man down--” 

**_“RED!”_ ** Jonah bellowed. He withered in Sam’s arms. 

Sam dropped himself over the boy to counter incoming bullets. His lungs strained and he had to keep himself from reaching down to make sure his chest was still whole. He took out two of the squad in quick succession. The remaining five continued forward in tight formation. The two men in the back were readying a small cannon, the barrel still smoking. 

“Leave the Widow” the leader barked. “She won’t last.” 

Jonah roared and Sam’s arm went hot with his own pain. He dropped the boy with a grunt, but--Jonah wasn’t a boy anymore. The screaming ball of black-brown fur that attacked him and Natasha in the lab hurtled toward the contracted pseudo-soldiers. One of them yelled and fired wiredly, missing Jonah by a mile. The boy ripped into him, fangs flashing. 

“J-Jonah!” Sam hollered. “Stop!” 

The others turned their guns on the child and Sam forced himself into action. He took two out and this distracted the third into running straight for him, thank God. Sam planted a kick in the center of his chest and he flew back into Cap’s shield. Bucky, blood dripping into his eyes, yanked another man out of the fray and threw him into Sam’s readied wings. Jonah screamed when he approached, poised on his hackles over his kills. 

“Jonah?” 

Sharon stood frozen behind them all, her eyes trained over Sam’s shoulder. Natasha’s arrhythmic breathing stuttered. Sharon’s eyes went wide and her gun clattered to the floor. 

**“RED,”** Jonah snarled. **“FIX!”**

He darted toward Natasha’s body and Sam caught him. “Wait, baby,” he said urgently. “Don’t touch her. She’s hurt real bad--” 

**“FIX HER!”** Jonah said, showing Sam his sharp teeth. **“MOVE!”**

“I need--emergency services on the twenty fifth floor of Udaku Children’s,” Sharon said into her hand. “Female, mid-thirties--” 

“Collapsed chest,” Bucky reported. He kneeled over Natasha, smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Right arm broken, lacerations to the abdomen and back of the head--” 

Jonah whined and went limp in Sam’s arms. His body began to shrink and soon Sam cradled his familiar lanky body to his chest. 

“Ssh,” he soothed. Jonah’s ears, still pointed, twitched at his voice. “It’s okay, baby. It’s gonna be okay.” 

Doctors arrived to pry Natasha’s body away from the busted, whistling window, and Sam wished he could believe it himself. 

~~~ 

Sharon rubbed at her eyes. 

“Are you sure _you_ should be here?” Natasha murmured. She rolled her wheelchair with one hand, the other securing Jonah in her lap. “You’re exhausted.” 

After the attack and Natasha’s subsequent trips to the OR, the boy refused to leave her side. He last transformation changed him--his ears retained there delicate tips and a long black tail curled up from his tailbone. His eyes were still red but slitted now like a cat, and in the right lighting they shone inhuman. Now, as they rolled quietly to the briefing room, he purred sleepily in Natasha’s lap. It was a small reassurance, but it helped ease the sting of her own personal defeat. Despite her efforts, legally there was little Sharon could do to connect Stryker with the contracted psuedo-soldiers of the ‘Snake Eyes’ outfit, and the men themselves weren’t giving up anything. Off-brand as they may be, they held together well, and the techniques Sharon knew could break them would be frowned upon both by her wife and Congress. 

“I’ll be fine,” Sharon assured her. She pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “What about--?” 

“I’ll take the child.” Thor bowed to them and offered Natasha a smile. “It’s good to see you well, Nat.” 

“Well as can be.” Natasha let him take Jonah from her lap. “Watch out for him, okay?” 

“He is in the safest of hands,” Thor vowed. “I am to help him pack for his trip to Professor Xavier’s school.” 

“Good,” said Sharon. “Thank you, Thor.” 

Barnes and Rogers were bent over a tablet when they entered. Bucky’s prosthetic was missing--whatever they’d used to disable it in the shootout had fried some of the internal wiring, and Stark was having a field day over getting to poke around in Shuri Udaku’s design. Sam sat at the center of table, eyeing his husband. 

“What are you doing here, retiree?” Natasha asked, rather pointed. Rogers forced a smile. 

“What, the Squashed Spider gets to be here but I don’t?” he joked. 

“Thought you couldn’t make it,” said Barnes without looking up. Nat urged her wheelchair forward. 

“Heard you needed a hand.” 

Bucky shot her an incredulous look and flicked her off. “Okay, okay,” Sharon said, taking a seat next to Nat. “Back to the matter at hand--” 

“I’m leaving,” Bucky complained. “This is elder abuse, goddamnit--” 

“What’ve you got, Barnes?” Nat interrupted. 

He grumbled and sighed, and then his face went serious. He held out the tablet. “It’s. Well, it’s not good.” Natasha frowned at the screen. 

“These are the guys that attacked us. Where was this taken?” 

“Camp Mabry,” said Rogers. 

Natasha took the tablet, holding it so Sharon could see. The men in the photo carried rifles. They wore green-and-black BDUs, black bullet proof vests and jackets with white snake-eyes dice on the shoulder. Sharon recognized the merc to the left as one of the men Jonah killed. 

“Is this current?” she asked. 

Steve nodded. “Surveillance is from last week.” 

“How did you know where to find them?” 

“Crenshaw’s contact,” Steve explained. “Said there was some unusual activity in the past forty-eight hours.” 

“So we’re too late.” Sharon pushed her hair back to give her shaking hands something to do. 

“We don’t know,” Bucky said. “There’s more, though.” He pulled up a new image on the tablet and passed it back to her. “We finally cracked the data Nat stripped from Geest.” 

Sharon had to look at Natasha for a moment. She didn’t want to see the aging doctor in the photo, or Crenshaw’s bright grin, or the child he had under his arm. 

“Crenshaw, in his old outfit,” Barnes said, “The doctor is--” 

“Caldwell Ackerman,” said Sharon. 

Natasha looked at her. “What?” 

“He was--a volunteer at _Haven_ ,” Sharon said hollowly. Natasha’s hand clamped down like a vice over hers. 

Cameron’s soft face smiled at her from the tablet screen. She was supposed to meet his dog when he found a foster home. They were going to pick him up. _Brownie-the-dog_ , a chocolate lab, six years old, missing a chunk out of his right ear where a cat got him good Miss Bond 

Wilson’s sharp eyes snapped to her, and he spoke for the first time. “That was your gig, right?” he asked, though he obviously knew the answer. “Maybe you can help us make sense of this, then?” 

He took the tablet and pulled up another document. Rows of data assaulted her eyes, but in just a few blinks Sharon knew what she was seeing. 

“This is a searcher’s list,” she said. She passed the tablet back without looking at Wilson or Natasha, whose eyes bore into her. “They gave them out to field agents in _Haven.”_

“You recognize all these names?” Barnes clarified. 

“They were using the kids,” said Sharon. “The ones who I brought in--” 

Guilt like a black wave threatened to drown her at the bottom of the ocean but she was anchored by the Natasha’s nails digging into her hand. 

“ _Haven_ was one of the largest organizations operating during the Dead Years,” Rogers said quietly. “It wouldn’t have been hard to use the system to seek out mutant children.” 

“But why the radiation?” Wilson snapped, still staring at Sharon. “Why not just let their powers develop?” 

“Sharon.” She couldn’t help but turn at the sound of her wife’s voice. Natasha’s gaze trapped her, imploring. 

“I lost track of them.” She worked her jaw. “Cameron Jackson, he’s in the picture. Number--” Sharon made herself look back a the tablet. “He’s the twentieth down on the list. I contacted his family last week--” 

She shook her head. “He never came home.” 

“How,” Natasha asked quietly, “did you know to call?” 

Sharon refused to let her voice shake. “Geest.” 

The room fell silent. Steve stood and Natasha--let go of her hand. She pushed herself back as best she could, turning the chair to face Sharon. 

“You knew,” she repeated lowly, “since Nevada.” 

“No,” Sharon said quickly, bile bubbling in her throat. “I wasn’t sure. There was no evidence, it was. They wiped the lab--” 

Natasha’s face crumpled. “But you called his family. You found something,” she accused. “What?” 

Sharon wet her mouth. “A toy,” she said. “It could have been anyone’s.” 

“Nat,” said Bucky, eyes flicking between them. 

Sharon kept her back straight. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she admitted. 

“...You thought I would be angry,” Natasha said softly, and God, her pity was worse than anything. “After all the things I’ve done in my life.” 

“I should have known,” Sharon snapped. “I _did_ know something was wrong; I didn’t want to see it. I just wanted to help.” She looked away, saw that her knuckles were white where she clasped her hands. 

“No,” Natasha snapped. “But you should have fucking known better than to lie to me.” 

Sharon didn’t watch her go. 

~~~ 

Sam smoothed the armored fabric of his suit. The quinjet was surprisingly cool, without all the Avengers crowded into it. Sam readjusted the wing-pack’s straps and double checked his gauntlets. Fighting blind he had done. Infiltration with week-old information, he had done. Fighting blind on an infiltration with week-old information and children most likely in the mix? 

Sam sighed. Not exactly...ideal. He checked his comms and ran his fingers over his weapons. 

“Hey.” 

Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Sam stiffened. “You here to talk about why you were running point on that debrief?” 

“Someone had to help Tony decipher the Geest code,” Steve murmured. “The man can decrypt data, but he’s not exactly Alan Turing.” 

Sam snorted and opened his mouth to reply. Then, he saw kevlar. 

“Wait--” Sam turned, eyes narrowed. Steve was in one of Bucky’s spare stealth suits, two semi-automatics strapped to his back. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he snapped. 

“Natasha’s down,” Steve argued. “We need--” 

“ _We_ don’t need anyone else!” Sam snapped. “ _We_ don’t need you!” 

Steve screwed up his face like he was trying not to wince. “I have a confession to make,” he said. “The person who contacted us with the surveillance footage--they gave us something else.” 

Sam huffed, exasperated. “And?” 

“Crenshaw got taken in.” 

Sam’s body went cold, like ice water dripping down his spine. “What?” he demanded. “Taken in? Was he tailed? Natasha--” 

“Did her job above and beyond, as usual.” Steve shook his head. “No. Sam, they caught him--they caught him breaking into the Camp Mabry base.” 

Sam wanted to break Mattie’s stupid fucking face. “Of course they did,” he snapped. “Of course I would always keep the same, stupid, reckless, self-sacrificing company. Is he alive?” Sam asked. 

Steve sighed again. “We’re not sure,” he admitted. “But I want to be there. In case--things go wrong.” He had the audacity to shrug. “Maybe it’s time for me to get back in. I called in a favor from Charles, and--” 

And Sam--Sam saw red. “Maybe it’s time?” he repeated. Steve snapped his mouth shut. “Maybe it’s fucking time. But not when the world ended,” Sam said, voice rising. “Not when I fucking died. Not even when you had the chance _to get me back!”_ He was screaming now, he knew it, but the words boiled over like hot water left too long. 

“You know what Mattie said to me?” He laughed, broken glass in his throat. “He asked if I was your ‘reason’ for fighting. And then I went away, you know?” Sam sneered. “I’m barely a fucking excuse.” 

Steve had gone white. He stood utterly still, stared at Sam and through Sam all at once. He swallowed once, and then turned and left without a word, and Sam died again in the cold, empty quinjet, alone with his rage. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sharon took a deep breath and tried to relax into her seat. Cap insisted that they needed no fewer than two transports, given they could be coming away with precious cargo, so now here she sat. Trying to breathe through marital panic and set herself up for a mission with the last person she wanted to talk to as her sole companion. 

“ETA twenty-two and counting,” Wilson reported. His face was unusually tense, jaw set in a tight clench. Sharon wondered if he had felt her betrayal as it ripped through her wife, a blinding pain more hollowing than the missile that crushed her chest. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Sharon jumped. “...You can ask,” she said. Falcon snorted. 

“Y’all are a pair, you know that?” he said. “You and Nat.” 

Sharon stared at the back of his head. “And you’re usually more tactful.” 

Wilson huffed. “I just...I don’t get it, Carter,” he said. He let out a wry chuckle. “You and her, you were always like the creepiest twins. No one ever, ever saw y’all together and you’d still just _know.”_ He shook his head. “You’d come back from a mission? Boom, Nat showed up with complimentary intel. She break a bone taking down some dumbass or another? You’re already complaining about how they don’t make Black Widow-patterned slings on Amazon.” 

“What’s your point?” Sharon snapped. 

“My point,” said Wilson, “is hers. Why the hell didn’t you say anything? To me, I get it.” He exhaled sharply. “You got problems with me, since Nat and I came back in each other’s brains. But why wouldn’t you tell her?” 

“I don’t know.” But that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t--I love my wife,” Sharon insisted, and God, she did, with every remaining fiber of her being, “but I don’t know how she does it.” She bit the inside of her lip. 

“Does what?” Sam prompted, turning his head to the side but not quite looking at her. Sharon shook her head. 

“How she lives with herself,” she said quietly. The quinjets engines purred in the subsequent silence. 

“What do you mean?” Wilson asked finally. 

“She did--horrible things,” Sharon whispered, “but she just. Keeps going. Knowing every deed, living with every single mistake she made and I don’t know how she does it, Sam.” Tears stung her eyes and oh, they were already flowing, already hot down her cheeks. 

“I brought children in to die,” she babbled. “Mutant children, and I didn’t even know they were gone, or what was happening to them. I was so bullheaded, so fucking determined to do one right thing after you all just died--” 

Her breath caught in her throat and Sharon buried her face in her hands. Sam hummed thoughtfully. 

“You didn’t want to tell her though--why?” he asked. 

“I didn’t want it to be real,” Sharon said into her palms. “Suspicions is one thing. Telling someone, speaking it out loud--” 

“Speaks it into reality,” Sam finished. “Yeah, okay. I can see that.” 

“Can she?” Sharon said, scrubbing her face and looking up again. Sam caught her gaze, now, and frowned. 

“Do you--you know her so well now,” she said, too bitter. “Will she understand?” 

“Of _course_ she’ll understand,” Sam said, exasperated, and it stung. “But that doesn’t mean she’ll get over it right away. And Sharon.” He shook his head, gave that awful, self-deprecating laugh again. 

“You know, Nat and I didn’t _choose_ to be close,” he told her. “She held the Soul Stone in her bare hand, and it burned her. It fucked her up--she didn’t know it was going to mix her soul up with mine.” His eyes went far-away for a moment, and then he seemed to shake himself back into his body. 

“Natasha _chose_ you,” he continued. “She chose to tell you all her shit, to lay herself out like that and let you look.” Sam shrugged. “She’s probably wondering why you couldn’t do the same for her.” 

Sharon hated him, for just that one moment, when everything slotted into place in her mind. Hated that he was right, that he held insight into her relationship that she was too selfish to see. And then she was just bone tired, crying in the quinjet, with her friend’s arm around her shoulders, and thought she finally figured out why Steve had married this man. 

~~~ 

“All clear,” Steve reported grimly. 

Sam gritted his teeth. His boots echoed in the empty hall, but it didn’t matter. No one was here. Again. They were too late. Again. Every child, of which there had to have been many, was gone from the sprawling Camp Mabry base. Sam didn’t know whether to be thankful or not that they weren’t walking into another Skygge-like scene; the children were still dead, did it matter that they hadn’t had a chance to fight back? 

VIDMO-23 sat quiet and undisturbed in a way that knotted Sam’s guts. There was no sign yet of Mattie. The lab boasted almost no security measures, no dampening network or giant sealed doors, and this despite its high-traffic location. Hiding in plain sight had its benefits, of course, but Sam found it hard to believe that Stryker would leave his third, largest, and last base--according to Geest’s decrypted files--at the mercy of passersby. 

_“Keep your eyes peeled,”_ Bucky ordered, and Sam resolutely did not picture Steve at his side, no shield, only kevlar and a foolhardy friend between him and whatever lay ahead. Instead he squinted in the fluorescents and stopped short, holding up a hand to Sharon a few paces behind him. 

“I think we found it,” Sam said. 

_“How do you know?”_

Sam rolled his eyes. “Giant sign over the doors says ‘LAB.’ Will you just worry about yourself, Barnes.” 

“Gentlemen.” Sharon slipped past him with a sideways glance. “Focus.” 

Sam followed the ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent up to the innocuous double doors. The light was on, but nothing peeked out from the reinforced glass windows. Sam was reminded of a school cafeteria and shoved away the picture of Jonah and Marisol lined up with trays in white scrubs, waiting for what Stryker would put on their plates. 

Sharon cocked one eyebrow and Sam nodded. He readied his gun, waited for Sharon to take position to his right, and kicked open the doors. The lock--the first one they’d found in the whole place--bent but did not break. Sam kicked again, harder, and it gave, the doors bursting open to a lone operating table. 

“Mattie!” 

Sam rushed forward. There was no blood, not visible, not fresh, but his friend’s head lolled and his left arm was twisted at the shoulder. Sam stood over his bed. 

“Mattie!” he said again. The rest of the room was empty, the equipment pushed lifeless against the walls. Sharon was halfway through a sweep of the perimeter, her gun still drawn. 

“Matt.” 

Mattie’s eyes fluttered and he groaned, back arching. Sam holstered his weapon and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” he said. Mattie bucked and Sam had to press him back down. “Hey! Whoa, it’s me, man, it’s Sam.” 

Mattie’s eyes blew wide. “Sammy,” he croaked. It sounded like he’d been screaming. “Oh, God.” 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Sam soothed. “We’re gonna get you out of here. Are the kids--” 

“No!” Mattie shouted. He sat up despite Sam’s protests this time and ah, there it was, vivid red on his teeth and his lips, coughed up by Mattie’s rough excitement. 

“You need to leave this be, Sammy,” he forced out. Another cough wracked his body. “They showed me what they’re doing with them. The successfuls.” 

“Successfuls?” Sam repeated. “Mattie, what--” 

“The successful manipulations,” Mattie said. “The kids. Fuck, Sammy, they’re trying to--Stryker, he wanted to round up mutant kids, you know but then _He_ showed him a way, to try and control their mutation.” 

“The radiation treatments,” Sam said, horror slithering over his skin. “But some of them--” 

“It wasn’t.” Mattie paused, grimaced, coughed again. “It was crude. Didn’t work out, mostly. They showed me the ones that didn’t make it.” His eyes filled with tears. “God, those fucking kids.” 

“Sam,” Sharon said quietly. He and Mattie both jumped. “Medical’s on the way.” 

Mattie shook his head. “Won’t help,” he croaked. “Listen. You’ve gotta just let them _go._ ” 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Sam spat. “They’re still holding kids, right? The _successfuls_ ? We can’t let them get away with that. We have to get them back to their families, man.” 

Mattie’s laboured breathing turned wet, and he spat over the side of the bed, bloody. He grimaced again. “I don’t know why they left me,” he muttered. 

“Mattie,” Sam said sharply, “come on. Why do you think we should back off, man? What happened to you?” 

“They showed me. _He_ showed me,” said Mattie. “The Doorway.” 

Something lurched inside of Sam, like he was hearing his parents talk about secrets he was never supposed to learn. 

“They’ll go through it,” Mattie told him, wide brown eyes burning. “And--God, I know it’s bad, Sam, but haven’t we done enough? They’ll go through it, and then they’re gone.” 

“He’s going to kill them.” Sharon’s hands flexed on her weapon. “Crenshaw, tell us where the survivors are. Now.” 

“I don’t know,” Mattie said, suddenly sounding very tired. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” 

Sharon’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Sam saw Black Widow’s true counterpart in her eyes. “I could change your mind,” she said coldly. 

Mattie shifted, but did not look away. “I won’t be alive long enough,” he said, offering Thirteen a wry smile. 

“Shut up,” Sam snapped. “Mattie--” 

“Drop it!” Sharon sprang back, gun leveled at Mattie’s head. “Put the detonator down, Crenshaw!” 

Mattie rotated his fist so Sam could see the bright orange button peeking out from beneath his curled thumb. “It’s already done,” he said. “You have about five minutes left. Shoot me, and I’ll light up faster.” 

Sam’s head swam, but he put up a hand to Sharon’s cocked weapon. “Mattie,” he said, “please, man, no.” 

Mattie lifted up his stained t-shirt. A tiny red light flashed under his skin, and his abdomen was swollen, distended. "You are what you eat," he joked. "Momma always said that." 

"Fuck you," Sam snapped. "Fuck you, man, don't do this." 

“Go,” Mattie insisted, face going grim. 

Sharon tugged at his arm. “Sam.” 

“Get off me!” He shrugged Carter away and stepped toward his friend, but Mattie raised the detonator. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sammy,” Mattie said, tears finally spilling over his cheeks. “Please, just go, man.” 

“Then don’t do this,” Sam insisted. “Please, don’t lea--” 

A bright, stabbing pain burst through the back of his skull, and the last thing he felt was Steve’s warm arms around him before the world went dark. 

~~~ 

Sharon ambled down the unassuming row of houses, searching for number 1414. A small girl on a tricycle stopped to let her pass. A woman, presumably her mother, waved from a sagging porch, cigarette in her unlifted hand. Sharon waved back. 

She reached her destination just after eight o’clock, the sun long since dipped behind the horizon. The doorbell did not wring when she pressed it, so she knocked sharply three times on the peeling blue door. Slow, heavy barking answered her. 

“How is it?” a voice hollered. 

“Mrs. Jackson?” Sharon called. 

There was a pause, then a rattle, and then the door jerked open. Katherine Lee Jackson pressed her face to the opening, her hazel eyes wide. A large brown dog nudged its way into the gap as well, its pink tongue lolling happily to greet Sharon. 

“Mrs. Jackson, my name is Sharon,” she said. “I’m here about your grandson. We have a lot to talk about.” 


End file.
